


Songbird

by Kinthinia



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alive Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher), Birthmarks, Canonical Character Death, Cursed Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Cursed Jaskier | Dandelion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale, M/M, Magic, Magic Jaskier, Pining, Reincarnation, Slow Burn, Songbird (magical being), Songbird (mythological creature), The Swan Princess references, Toussaint (The Witcher), What if Jaskier made the wish, kind of, past Geralt / Renfri
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:13:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23866573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kinthinia/pseuds/Kinthinia
Summary: A hundred some years ago, the Witcher Geralt fled into the Forest of Wolves with Renfri, the last known Songbird. Neither of them walked out alive. Renfri, cut down in her prime, her extraordinary powers lost forever; and Geralt, trapped in eternal slumber, his wish never granted.Songbirds are exceedingly rare creatures, born to humans, living normal human lives with one notable difference: using nothing more than their voice, they are capable of breaking any curse, and granting power beyond imagination. Many humans seek them out for power, or profit; Witchers seek them for permission to quit the Path and become whole once more; while monsters hunt them down mercilessly.Jaskier, determined to compose the best tragic love story in a century, sets out to see the Witcher in the Woods with his own eyes. Instead, he breaks a life-long curse, accidentally revives the dead, and falls in love with a man he can never have.--or the one where Witchers and half-demons are one in the same, their parentage determining which School they attend, and Jaskier has an actual silver tongue, he just doesn't know it yet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Renfri | Shrike
Comments: 90
Kudos: 209





	1. The Witcher in the Woods

Jaskier left Blaviken, tucking his notebook into his bag, as he headed towards the White Wolf’s Forest. People from these parts didn’t go into the forest; they said it was haunted, cursed by the Songbird’s final words. Supposedly, some hundred years ago, a Witcher had travelled to Blaviken seeking the power of the Songbird to become whole. Jaskier could sympathize, the life of a Witcher was a terribly hard one. Demons and monsters reviled them; and humans barely tolerated them. Neither human nor monster, but something caught in between.

Songbirds were the rarest of the rare. With nothing but their voice, they could break a curse, or provide a miracle. Scholars speculated that a new Songbird was born once five centuries, and that most of them didn’t live to see thirty. Greedy men and women desperate for money, or power, would clamour for its power. And for some reason, as yet unknown due to lack of research, it was known that monsters also sought out Songbirds. Werewolves, vampires, and others with higher intelligence, seemed to sense the Songbird’s power. Only a Songbird could relieve a Witcher’s duty.

So Jaskier sympathized. The White Wolf had made his way to Blaviken, where he met Renfri. The last known Songbird. As the story went, the sorcerer Stregobor kept her in a gilded cage in the centre of town where visitors could appeal their case. And where those with money could pay their way to the front of the line. According to Stregobor’s journals, he refused the Witcher’s request. There weren’t enough Witchers in the world, and he refused to allow the Witcher freedom when the world needed his services. He threw a pouch of coin to the man, and thought that would be the end of it.

There were only two survivors alive in Blaviken, not accounting for Stregobor, who remembered that night. A fire started, at the edge of town that night. While they were putting it out, the Witcher broke into Stregobor’s home and broke the golden cage wide open. The Witcher and the Songbird fled, into the forest, with Stregobor not far behind. The only witness to the events that took place within the forest, was Stregobor. Renfri died at the swords of the Witcher, and with her final words, cursed him to eternal slumber.

People didn’t come to Blaviken, Jaskier knew. It wasn’t a major trade route, or a very important town. He stood out, but bards always stood out. The towns people were eager to share their stories, the rumors and legends they had about the White Wolf. The stories varied, but one fact always remained the same. Renfri had cursed the Witcher to eternal slumber with her dying words, and deep within the White Wolf’s forest, he slumbered still.

Which, wow! What a story that would make. Jaskier had left Oxenfurt eight months ago, hitting the road in search of stories he could sing. None had been as promising as the Butcher of Blaviken. It was quite a gruesome moniker, and hardly accounted for Blaviken’s tourism. Really, Jaskier thought, they should have leaned into it. He’d been through the village, to the burned out rubble where the first fire had started, and to the tomb in the middle of town where those who had passed away that night had their names engraved. It was strange, staring at Renfri’s name at the bottom of the list. No one really knew how the fighting started, or when it started, but everyone knew the Witcher had done it.

Jaskier slipped into the forest at night, when it was nearer dawn than midnight. But the guards didn’t let anyone into the forest. They’d been stationed there for years with one goal -no one could go into, or out of, the White Wolf’s Forest. Jaskier felt his way through the forest, hands out, shuffling feet. He wasn’t going to let a handful of barely-trained guards stop him from setting his eyes on this Witcher. Supposedly the man still slumbered; but no one had ever lived to tell the tale. That was where Jaskier came in. He would tell this story for ages -of a Witcher, cursed, by a creature he’d saved. But he needed to see the man himself, first.

When he was certain he was deep enough into the woods that the light of his torch wouldn’t be seen, he lit it. Jaskier had bought a sword for the purpose of self-defense, in case the woods were haunted. He had been raised as a lord’s son after all; he knew how to use the thing. He hated the weight of it on his hip, the threat of danger it posed, but it was far better than nothing when he was stumbling around a cursed forest at night. Jaskier walked until the sun started to creep past the horizon, rays of light scattering between the trees.

And there, from the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of white. Jaskier turned, walking towards it. There, propped against the base of a tree, was the Witcher. Long white fell to the man’s shoulders, his head lolled against his shoulder, eyes shut. He could have been sleeping. Stepping closer, mindful of each step, Jaskier stared. Atop his head, pointed wolf ears. He had to be from the School of the Wolf. Maybe the name of the forest should have given it away, but he’d been to places with sillier names for no reason. The Witcher wore nothing but a black shirt, one sleeved furled, the other loose, and a pair of black pants. His boots were missing. No sign of his swords, either.

Jaskier crouched down, scooting forward. He eyed the ears, again. They looked so… soft, and tempting. Jaskier shuffled closer, keeping an eye on the Witcher’s steady, even breathing. Jaskier bit his lip, fighting to not touch the soft dog-like ear. What would happen if the Witcher woke up while he was touching him? The Witcher was cursed; he couldn’t wake up. Jaskier cautiously reached out -no reaction. He set one hand on an ear -still, no reaction. The fur was soft, so wonderfully soft. This was a very odd and inappropriate thing to be doing in the middle of the woods with an unconscious Witcher, he realized.

He pulled back, only a little sheepish. “Well,” he said, “now that that’s out of my system…”

He fished around in his bag, pulling out his notebook. He stared at the Witcher. “Now, if only I could ask you your story. Your side of events.” He dipped his quill into the inkwell. “Alas, history gets written by the winners.”

In the morning light, sitting beside the unconscious man, Jaskier wrote. About the White Wolf and the Songbird, and he wondered about their last moments. Why had he freed the Songbird only to murder her after? And how was he so deep in the forest? Stregobor was supposed to have pursued them that night, and caught up to them in minutes, but that wasn’t possible. Not out here. Every Witcher must have stopped to seek out Renfri at some point. Jaskier didn’t blame them, they had a thankless job and lived solitary lives. What was so different about this one, that she had cursed him?

Jaskier finished writing as the sun reached its peak. He stood and stretched, and hummed the start of his song. He unclipped his scabbard, setting sword aside in favour of his lute. She was the best gift he’d ever bought for himself. He rang his hands lovingly over her strings, and the melody began to form.

_“Lend me your hand and we’ll conquer them all,_

_But lend me your heart, and I’ll just let you fall_

_Lend me your eyes, I can change what you see_

_But your soul you must keep, totally free.”_

He sang on, working the lyrics through his mind and onto paper. He liked the shape of Renfri’s story, and while it would sound better sung by a woman, he thought the heart of their story was true. Or, perhaps, could have been. After all, what reason would a Witcher have to free a Songbird? Judging by those fuzzy ears on his head, he was still just a Witcher at heart. So she hadn’t made him whole. A man and a woman, alone, deep within the woods -it was a romantic rendevous. They’d fallen in love. He hadn’t cared about being whole -he’d cared about love. It was a passionate tale, of lovers eloping with a tragic ending in eternal slumber.

He glanced at the Witcher every so often, disquieted by the man’s presence. It was eerie and unnerving. But Jaskier didn’t dare leave the forest until nightfall. He didn’t want to attract a mob of angry villagers, so he settled back down by the Witcher and set out his lunch. Stale bread and salted meat, such was his life on the road. But it wasn’t all bad, he supposed. He eyed the Witcher, taking a slice of meat from his sandwich. What if…?

He waved the meat under the Witcher’s nose.

No, nothing. Of course. Why would the cursed Witcher wake up? It would have been interesting, if he had. Jaskier sighed. It felt odd to eat the meat after that, but he was hungry. He couldn’t afford to waste food, these days. Barding wasn’t always profitable.

From behind him, he heard rustling. Jaskier froze. It wasn’t the kind of rustling that a human-sized body could make -a bear, possibly. He got to his feet, clipping his scabbard back onto his hip. After a second of hesitation, he set his lute behind the Witcher, figuring it would be safe there if nothing else. He wasn’t going to fight a bear off. If it even was one, he supposed he could leave the Witcher for it to eat. But for a man who’d been sleeping for a hundred years, maybe more, nothing had ever come through nibbling. Jaskier swallowed tightly. It wasn’t a reassuring thought, given the noise was coming closer.

A leshen stepped out, monstrous and snarling. Drool dripped down its bone maw, and it scented the air. “Flesh, blood,” it panted, taking a step forward.

Jaskier’s heart pounded. He grabbed the hilt of his sword with a sweaty palm. He couldn’t outrun it.

“I can smell… _human_.”

 _Now would be a great time to wake up,_ Jaskier thought, glancing at the Witcher, positioning the man between them.

It was at least eight feet tall, with a deer’s skull for a face, on what could have been an overgrown human body. It had huge antlers atop its head, and when it swung its face, Jaskier could only picture how those points would catch and tear at anything it grabbed hold of. The top half of its body was exposed; moss covered bark with tattered cloth across its shoulders. Dark rags concealed the lower half, but its massive trunk-like arms swung across the clearing. If it was dark out, Jaskier thought they only thing he would have seen was the sun-bleached deer skull it had for a face. Eyeless. A haunting image.

Jaskier felt the roots beneath his feet writhe and surge up; he lost his footing, tripping and sprawling across the Witcher.

“It’s been so long,” it said, and Jaskier felt roots crawl over his feet.

He panicked, bucking, careless of the Witcher beneath him. _This wasn’t how he was going to die_. He was going to die, old, and in bed beside the love of his life. That’s how Jaskier wanted to go. He drew his sword, slashing at the roots. He wasn’t going to suffocate underneath roots, or be another helpless victim to this monster.

The roots broke apart around his feet, and he kicked free of them. He heard the Leshen growl as crows screeched around him. He hadn’t heard any minutes before, but suddenly there was a flock diving at him, grabbing at his clothes, pecking at his hands. He swore, trying to shake them off but their beaks dug in deep and drew blood. Jaskier yelped as one dove for his face, dropping his sword as he shielded himself.

“Fucking wake up already,” Jaskier growled at the Witcher. “You’ve had plenty of beauty sleep. This is your job. I can’t do your job for you. Please. Please, just wake up. _Wake up_!”

Jaskier screamed when roots wrapped around his feet, dragging him across the ground. His cheek caught on a stone, scratching open. He clawed at the ground, hands skimming through loose leaves and dirt. He was hauled into the air, supported only by the roots wrapped around his boots. He teetered precariously for a moment, and watched as the ground rushed up to meet him.

He was going to die. He turned his head to the side, groaning as he hit the ground shoulder-first. Leaves tickled his cheek, and the bugs fled from him. He couldn’t say he blamed them. The smell of rot and decay reached his nose, and he dug into the ground desperate to find something to hold onto. His sword had fallen beside the Witcher, and Jaskier made to dive for it. The Leshen whipped him away and he snatched onto a larger root to hold himself onto.

“This is my land,” the Leshen said.

The Witcher’s hand twitched.

“I -I’m so sorry,” Jaskier babbled, staring into the eyeless skull. “I was just looking for a place to play music. I can leave. I won’t come back.”

The root he held onto waved under his grip, like the tide being drawn back to sea. It bucked Jaskier aside, like he was nothing. Beneath the crushing weight of the forest, he realized he was nothing. Barely even a toy to be played with by this monster.

The Leshen let out an inhuman growl as the roots inched up his body to his waist, securing him in place. Jaskier winced in anticipation, scrambling at the ground, desperate for purchase. A litany of desperate no’s fell from his lips, but like a heedless god with a taste for blood and vengeance, the Leshen swung Jaskier into the air once more. He tried to grab at the roots around him for balance, but they were small and spindly and snapped at his touch. He wobbled precariously midair before crashing into the ground like little more than a rag-doll.

This was it. This was the moment of his death. The forest creature was going to repeatedly smash his very vulnerable and fragile body against the ground until his insides were on the outside. It did it again. Jaskier’s face ground into the dirt and leaves, his shoulder taking the brunt of the force once more.

Jaskier cried out in pain. As the Leshen tugged him into the air again, he cast a desperate glance at the unconscious Witcher. Nothing. He was unceremoniously swung through the air, and he struggled to get his arms up to protect his face, before he was slammed against the ground. He felt something pop that shouldn’t have. Everything ached. He was covered in debris, and he was going to die at the roots of some eyeless monster, next to a Witcher.

“You’re the laziest Witcher I’ve ever met,” Jaskier groaned, for the sake of hearing his own voice. For the sake of not being helpless in the face of death. “Sleeping on the job, really, uh, brings it to a new low!”

The next time he hit the ground was with a lot more force. His head ached. _Everything_ ached. And he was bleeding, of course he was, he only hoped not enough to ruin his clothes.

“You slaughtered half a town once but now you can’t even open your eyes?!” Jaskier shrieked as the Leshen whipped him into the air once more.

Yellow eyes flashed open. There was a blast of fire, the sound of a sword being drawn, and Jaskier landed on his ass. The Witcher had Jaskier’s sword in hand, cleaving his way through the Leshen’s roots and branches. Crows dove at him, but an arc of air sent them scattering. And then, the Witcher was on the Leshen, burying his sword into the bark over and over again. Fire flew from his hands, and the smell of burning wood filled the clearing. In seconds, the Leshen fell apart.

“So… you don’t even need a silver sword, huh?” Jaskier asked, staring in bewilderment. In a minute or two, the pain would kick in. But the shock was a pleasant buffer, as he watched the Witcher turn to face him.

“Silver’s easier,” he grunted, sheathing the sword.

Jaskier swiped the back of his hand across his face, wiping away the blood. He could feel his eye swelling, and he hoped his nose wasn’t broken. “Who are you?” he asked, unable to contain himself.

“Geralt.”

Jaskier swallowed as those yellow eyes turned to him, staring at him with something like despair.

“But you should have already known that,” he said, drawing his sword again. In a flash, it was pointed against the hollow of Jaskier’s throat.

“What?” Jaskier squawked, attempting to scoot back. He bumped his shoulder in the process and yelped in pain.

Geralt pressed the tip of the sword more firmly against his throat. “Move and die.”

Jaskier clenched his eyes shut, inhaling raggedly against the pain. Yeah, something had to be broken.

“Trying to disguise yourself again? After what you did?” Geralt growled. “Thought I wouldn’t recognize you?”

Jaskier stared at him with wide eyes. “I don’t know what you’re -”

“Don’t play games with me, bird,” he growled.

Bird? Jaskier was many things, but capable of flight he was not.

“Drop the glamour, Ren,” he demanded.

“Ren…fri?” Jaskier stuttered. “She’s dead. I’m sorry to tell you -she’s been dead for, for a long time!”

“You think I’m going to believe that?”

“You’re the one who killed her!” Jaskier shouted, wiggling back from the sharp point of the blade. “And in case you missed it, I’m a man! I am not hiding a bosom beneath this doublet, believe it or not.”

Geralt’s eyes went wide, and sheathed his sword in a single, fluid motion. “I killed her,” he repeated, a faraway look in his eyes. “I killed her.”

Jaskier rubbed his throat, staring at the Witcher warily. So it was true, then. He couldn’t say he was surprised, exactly, when the man was known as the Butcher of Blaviken. Jaskier had talked to the survivors’ descendants, and they spoke only of the fear they’d felt. The fear they still felt, for the day the Witcher in the Woods awoke.

Geralt blinked, shaking his head. “You look so much like her…”

Jaskier pinched his nose with his good hand, trying to stem the flow of blood. “Honestly? I don’t know whether I should be offended or not.”

“How did you wake me? That curse… no one but her could have removed it.”

Jaskier looked up at the Witcher, bruised and bleeding. “I asked? How am I supposed to know? I’m not a mage -or some kind of sorcerer. I’m just a travelling bard. I came here to write a song, not to -to fight monsters, not to wake the fucking Butcher of Blaviken!”

Geralt took a menacing step towards him. “Say that again.”

Jaskier glared at him. “Your reputation precedes you, in these parts, Geralt. Here you’re known as the Butcher of Blaviken.” Geralt stepped towards him again, the menacing, rage in his eyes. If looks could kill, Jaskier would be dead. “Hey!” he shouted, his hand outstretched towards him. “Back off. I didn’t do this to you!”

But Geralt grabbed him by his collar, pulling him to his feet. Jaskier struggled, feet kicking at leaves, his arm an agony of fiery pain. Geralt shoved him against the tree and Jaskier cried out in pain. If he hadn’t been so close to him, he would have missed the way his fluffy ears twitched at a noise Jaskier couldn’t hear. Geralt turned and it was all the warning Jaskier had before he was dropped to his feet. He staggered, catching his balance against the tree.

“It’s not safe here,” Geralt announced. “Pack and leave.”

“They’ll kill us if we go,” Jaskier said, exhausted. “They have guards, on the look for the day you wake up.”

“I’d like to see them try.”

“Please, mercy,” Jaskier mumbled, glancing at the other man. His body ached. It ached in places it shouldn’t, and he could barely think past the pain.

“Fine,” Geralt said, and without any preamble ran into the woods, Jaskier’s sword on his hip. Within seconds, he was gone from his line of sight.

Jaskier slid down the tree, clutching his wounded arm helplessly. His lute rolled end over end, strings snaring ominously, partly overrun by roots. He closed his eyes, breathing hard through the pain. Great. Just fucking fantastic. Those strings had better not be broken. There was a noise, like a sudden rush of air, and a flash of gold and black before an older man stepped out of the portal. It snapped shut and disappeared behind him.

Once, his hair might have been called blonde but it was mostly faded to white and gray. He seemed to be making up for the receding hairline with extra beard, that he had groomed with patience. He wore a black and gold robe, and held a staff in one hand. A sorcerer, then.

“Well now,” he said, staring at Jaskier. “I felt that curse break all the way from my tower. And now, I find the Witcher gone, and you. An inquisitive little bard, I heard. No one told me you looked so much like my dear Renfri.”

“There was a little fight, you see,” Jaskier said, indicating the deer skull and twigs around it. “And -and he woke up in the middle of it.”

The sorcerer laughed. “I bet he did. And he did it without silver, even! Impressive.” He walked towards Jaskier, picking his way through the leaves with care. “You know, I didn’t expect to find you here.”

Jaskier stared at him blankly. “I thought writing in the forest would do me some good. I didn’t think there was _really_ going to be some unconscious Witcher here.”

“Remarkable,” the sorcerer said, kneeling down, blue eyes examining Jaskier closely. “You truly look like her.”

There was, perhaps, only one known sorcerer familiar with both the Witcher, and the Songbird.

Jaskier grit his teeth. “Thanks, she must have been a real looker.”

Stregobor grabbed his jaw, turning his head this way and that. “You’ll do nicely. Now, don’t fight. I hate getting my hands dirty.” He pulled back, and Jaskier felt air wrap around his body, floating him along. Stregobor chuckled. “I can’t believe my luck!”

Jaskier tried to fight, but found he was completely immobile. His lute -his notebook. He watched as the portal snapped shut, as they disappeared from view, and he landed in a spacious laboratory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics are from "Awake my Soul" by Mumford and Sons.


	2. Renfri of the Black Sun

“Songbirds are exceptionally rare,” Stregobor said conversationally as he poured green water into the tub. “Partly because they themselves are not born aware of their power. Cursed monsters can sense it in them, and Witchers, I suppose. Beastly things -ever seen one of them lose control?”

Jaskier didn’t answer, because he couldn’t. He’d been gagged, well and thoroughly. The worst of his wounds had been healed during the process, only because his groans of pain were too annoying for the sorcerer to tolerate. Jaskier hated everything about Stregobor -especially his monologues. This wasn't the first rant the man had carried on with, but Jaskier figured it was shaping up to be another lengthy one.

“Well, I assure you it’s most terrifying. Black eyes, claws and fangs, slobbering for blood.” He waved his hand for emphasis. “You get the picture. I understand why the Witchers seek out Songbirds -but they have a job to do, first and foremost. When there’s no more monsters, let them be free, but until then they’ve got work to do. But it's a damn shame most Songbirds have been killed to Witchers -the freaks can't control themselves, all they're good for doing is monster slaying and even _that_ is questionable at best.

“I had my beautiful Renfri -it’s said she was the fairest of them all, you know?” Stregobor paused in what he was doing, turning to Jaskier. “She sat for her portrait, just the once.” He gestured.

Above the beakers and vials, all laid out in a colourful display on his work table, hung an obscenely sized portrait of a young woman. She had uneven curly brown hair, tapering off at her shoulder. She wasn’t smiling. For this sitting, her cage had been left open, because the background included the golden cage. One of her hands was wrapped loosely around the bars, and she was leaning forward, blue eyes full of unspeakable despair. She had a mole, Jaskier noted, on the inside of her right wrist. The same as his. And while there were similarities between them, he supposed, he didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone look quite so sad as she. 

“The loveliest thing, truly, you should have heard her sing. I’ll never forgive the Witcher for taking her from me.” Stregobor turned back to his green bath tub, throwing in more herbs. “I wasn’t going to let death stop me in the first place, naturally. Magic exists for a reason, and where there’s a will there’s a way.”

Jaskier twisted to look at him in shock. Necromancy? Seriously? As far he knew, it was one of the forbidden magics. 

Stregobor pulled back from the tub, grabbing a jar of what looked like soil. Soil, with white rock. Stregobor emptied the entire thing into the bath tub, and Jaskier felt a shiver of fear grip him. He struggled against the magic holding him in place.

“It won’t be long, don’t worry.”

Oh, but Jaskier was very worried. That foul bath tub smelled weird, and looked worse. The water was glowing green, and not the good kind of glowing. It pulsated every few moments. Jaskier didn’t know a lot about magic -but he was sure that whatever was happening here was evil.

Stregobor pulled out another jar, holding it reverently. “Don’t worry Renfri, it won’t be long till you’re back.”

Slowly, with a care Jaskier didn’t think the man could possess, he scooped out what Jaskier could only assume were Renfri’s remains. 

“I just needed the right soul. I was planning on taking the Witcher’s, but yours will have to do.” Stregobor turned to Jaskier, smiling placatingly. “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing.”

With a wave of his hands, Jaskier was moved until he was positioned in a separate bath tub. He fought against the magic, knowing it was useless, but refusing to surrender. He grabbed at the edges of the tub, fighting, fighting as Stregobor placed a hand on his chest and he dropped into cold, slimy water. He felt the magic bonds relax and disappear entirely, only to find that the water was soaking into his skin, weighing him down.

“If she were just a normal human, this spell would never work,” Stregobor explained, and Jaskier found he really hated the sound of the man’s voice.

He splashed, trying to push himself up.

“But for a Songbird? A little graveyard soil, and her remains, perfectly intact? No difficulty for her.”

Jaskier growled in frustration, slipping back into the water. It felt like the world itself was pressing him down, adding more weight each second that passed. “Would she even want to come back?” Jaskier demanded. “Did you think about that?”

Stregobor blinked at him, as though he’d forgotten Jaskier’s presence entirely, and then he laughed. “She wants what I want. She knows.”

Jaskier groaned in discomfort; something felt very wrong. The tub full of glowing green light began to pulsate faster, and he watched in horror as bones began to fuse together. The silhouette jerked and writhed, clouded with dark dust. Jaskier jerked against the water, feeling like a lead weight was around his middle, dragging him under. His stomach roiled, almost painfully so, and he managed to raise his head against the weight there, ready to retch. And then he slid under the water, unable to stop it from happening.

The water started to drain away, and the pressure weighing him down started to ease up. A bright flash of light seared through the room, and Jaskier blinked away the after-images. He heard movement and turned, squinting to see the naked woman stepping out of a broken tub. Steam rose from her body in waves.

“Renfri!” Stregobor cried, hurrying to her side.

Jaskier blinked, once, and Renfri was leaning over him wearing a pretty maroon dress with a grey cloak around her shoulders. Jaskier blinked, and she was gone, her back facing him. Dimly, he realized he must be dying. It didn’t hurt. But he couldn’t keep track of time; moments were slipping through his fingers. He blinked, trying to claw through the fog that had begun filling his mind; it felt like someone had padded his brain with stuffing. 

“My little Songbird!” Stregobor crowed, smoothing her hair back from her face. “How do you feel?”

Renfri pulled away from him. “I’m not yours,” she said sullenly. “I was never yours.”

Stregobor frowned. “Now, is that any way to talk to the man who raised you from the dead?”

Renfri glanced at Jaskier, blue-green eyes full of sorrow. “No,” she said, after a pause. She took a step toward him. “I’m sorry Master Stregobor.”

Jaskier hated him. Renfri wasn’t meant to be caged and locked up, a petulant pretty girl in a dress on display. He was a monologuing bastard. Jaskier hated him. He knew in his heart, Renfri wasn’t sorry, that she would never be sorry. Apology wasn’t in her genetics; it wasn’t a phrase she was accustomed to. People didn’t apologize to her, they just made demands. Jaskier sensed her rage like it was his own. Renfri hated him more than anything, more than life itself, more than she hated herself. And there, in the back of his mind, he felt her emotions bleeding into him. Jaskier slipped down the tub again, his fingers itching to grab a weapon, any weapon. He wanted to carve out Stregobor's heart, stare him in the eyes, and watch as the life bled out of him. No. No, that wasn't right. Jaskier fumbled, grabbing onto the edge of the tub. He pulled himself up with difficulty. 

He didn't like the bastard, and he wouldn't shed a tear if the man died, but not... not like that. 

“Don’t worry dove,” Stregobor said. “Resurrection is hard on the soul…” He paused, his eyes landing on Jaskier. A worried frown settled in place. “Especially when the original isn’t dead yet.”

Jaskier glared at him. He didn’t have much energy left -dimly, he was aware it meant he really was dying, just kind of fading out from the world of the living, and he hated it. He wasn’t supposed to die until he was old and in bed with the love of his life, then he would slip away peacefully. But his limbs felt weak, and his grasp on the edge of the tub was slacking. 

"I don't die that easily," Jaskier growled, clinging to the tub to keep himself upright. He was aware he didn't look like much of a threat, barely clinging to the edge of a bath tub, drenched in slimy water, but he wasn't going to die like some no body. 

He felt her intention in the back of his mind, the spite of hatred, deep and biting. Stregobor had no idea. The sorcerer took a step towards him, staff raised high. Jaskier braced for a blow, for impact, for _something_ but there wasn't one. He cracked one eye open, then the other. Renfri had her hands on Stregobor's shoulders, a pleasant smile on her face. Without a second of hesitation, she slammed her knee into his crotch and the wizard's staff fell from his grip with a pained groan. Black sparkling magic danced between her fingertips, Renfri reached towards him, the black sparks darted from fingertip to Stregobor. The man screamed, his back arching off the floor. Renfri yelled -not words, simply the act itself, full of years of rage and hatred. She had a lifetime of it. The black magic exploded around her, knocking jars off shelves, sending bookcases rocking. The force of it knocked him end over end, the tub clattering worrying above him, his bones jostled. His head pounded, and when the room stopped moving, he forced himself to put arm over arm, stretching with his toes as far as he could to crawl out.

“I’m not your dove,” Renfri spat. “I was never yours to begin with, you son of a bitch!”

Stregobor coughed weakly. Jaskier strained to get a better view; this would make for a wonderful story, if he lived long enough to write it. It was a sobering thought. But he felt a little stronger, and he stretched further.

“You bought me from my step-mother like I was a fucking slave you could dress up and show off when it suited you.” Renfri slapped his hand aside, pulling a knife from his belt. “You kept me locked up in a cage. Well, _Master,_ this is the thanks you get.” And she plunged the dagger into his chest, straight through his heart.

Jaskier forced himself to unsteady feet, finding his strength was returning.

“I don’t need your soul,” Renfri said, watching the life bleed out of Stregobor. There was something wild about her, like she was maybe considering dismembering the body. “I’ll take his.” She huffed a laugh under her breath. "It's not like he needs it anymore."

“Thanks?” Jaskier said uncertainly. “I wasn’t, uh, all too keen on giving it up.”

Renfri shoved her blade through Stregobor’s stomach, and the noise was so horrific Jaskier gagged. She hummed, a pleased, triumphant noise and Jaskier watched as a bright glowing light blossomed from the sorcerer’s stomach. With her free hand, Renfri grabbed the orb -the soul- and drew it to her lips. Jaskier thought he could hear the sorcerer scream, muted, and tiny, just once, before it disappeared entirely. Starting from his stomach, where the blood had stopped running, faint lines of gray and black cracks formed. Then, they flecked off. The lines spread, from his stomach to his toes, and more ash fell away from his body. There was no blood, no mess, no bones. Nothing but dust. Within seconds, he was nothing but a pile of ash. They sat in silence for a long moment, watching as the ashes scattered, until there was nothing left but bloodstained flooring.

Renfri got to her feet. “I don’t feel like I want to vomit anymore, guess the bleeding effect has worn off.” She stretched her arms, knife still in hand. "You need a stronger stomach."

“Bleeding effect?” Jaskier repeated dumbly. “From our souls -trading?"

Renfri shrugged, dabbing at the bloodstain on her dress. "If you want to call it that. It was fucked up, whatever he did."

"And you don't need my soul anymore?" Jaskier asked nervously. "You see, I just wouldn't want to be down the road ten years and have you show up looking for it. Better to know now than find out in the future."

"I didn't want to come back," Renfri said darkly. "I was _free_ and he took that away from me." She turned to Jaskier, assessing him. "I lived my life, caged. I wasn't going to trade my freedom for yours. But his?" She spat on the bloodstained floor. "Fuck him. He never used his soul for anything but shit."

Jaskier nodded along. He could understand, he thought. Not what it was like to live a caged life, or to hate so strongly to be consumed by it, but to making the choice between a stranger and someone he hated. Then again, they weren't completely strangers. He had a sense of who she was -independent, desperate and fiercely longing. There was something she wanted more than Stregobor's death. He couldn't say what it was exactly. He wished he knew whether his awareness of her, his sense of her, was from having his soul inhabit her body. Or if it had something to do with the way they looked similar, with how they had the same moles in the same place. Did she have a birthmark just underneath her collarbone in the shape of a triangle? 

She dropped her hands to her side, turning the blade end over end. “Leave, bard, before I decide to end _you._ You’re standing here with my face and it’s very difficult right now.”

Jaskier didn’t need to be told twice. It wasn’t that he was afraid of her, despite seeing her kill a man in cold blood and eat his soul, no. She felt eerily like she was part of him. Like every moment with her was an extension of his own existence. But he didn’t want to spend another minute in the same room with an undead woman who ate souls to live. 

Neromancy, Jaskier knew, was forbidden for several reasons. The consequences were vast, varied and uncontrolled. He thought Renfri fit the description for the last part. The tower he fled through was empty, its walls barren and cracked in places. Perhaps Stregobor had once been a notable man, but he had since fallen in poverty and disrepair. He likely hadn’t cared. His obsession with Renfri was chilling.

Outside, Jaskier was surprised to discover he was still within the White Wolf’s forest. Idly, he wondered if the name would change now that Geralt was running free. He wished he could have interviewed either of them -what the hell had happened a hundred years ago? Had they been lovers? Enemies? Had Geralt tried to force her to use her powers to lay down his swords and become human? A story for the century, lost to a barefooted Witcher running wild, and a soul-eating undead woman.


	3. A Simple Secret

After a day of wandering, trying to find his way back to his lute and notebook, Jaskier was forced to admit defeat. He was hungry. He’d lost his bag and all those supplies sometime after Stregobor floated him back to his laboratory, and while he was thankful he’d managed to hold onto his coin purse, he was anxious about escaping the forest. At night, he woke up at every strange rustle in the darkness, half out of his mind with panic that a Leshen was coming for him. It was stupid really; he hadn’t heard the Leshen coming last time, why would he start to now? Knowing that, did little to ease his nerves. Jaskier wasn’t eager to exit the forest, between not knowing where he was, and the fact that with Geralt on the loose, his punishment would be far more severe if the townspeople caught him. They’d be within their rights to hang him.

But he wasn’t going to live out the rest of his life in this forest, nibbling on berries he knew were safe, sipping water from streams. His clothes were filthy beyond repair; he needed to replace his lute and his notebook. Life without music, without the arts, was no life at all. He was heading in the direction of town, following the smell of smoke and the lowing of cattle, when someone grabbed him from behind. 

Before he could cry out, there was a hand clamped over his mouth. “What are you doing?” Geralt growled. “They’ll kill you.”

Jaskier’s legs shook and he nearly fell down as his heart pounded against his chest. “Give a man a warning!” Jaskier hissed, knocking Geralt’s arm away.

The Witcher must have been satisfied with his response, because he didn’t fight back.

“I almost had a heart attack!” he continued, clutching his chest. 

“You’re not fifty feet from Blaviken -do you have a death wish?” 

Jaskier went to argue with the man, but stopped short when he looked at him. Geralt had a gash down his forehead, recent enough that it was still oozing blood. He’d found a pair of boots somewhere, made of nice durable leather, and he was wearing three swords instead of one. 

“You stole my sword.” What a stupid thing to say.

Geralt arched a brow, and if Jaskier had any fear left in his body he might have quaked under that gaze. But he’d long since run out of fear. Between the Leshen, the sorcerer and the dead Songbird, Jaskier didn’t know if he could fear the Witcher too. He just didn’t have it in him.

“Look, you stole my sword, and I’ve lost my things, I’m hungry and dirty, and I want a good night’s rest in a bed!”

“You woke me up.” He shoved Jaskier’s sword at him. “And survived Stregobor, apparently. I didn’t think you’d appreciate getting stoned to death -but if you’d prefer, be my guest,” he growled, gesturing in the direction of Blaviken.

“You knew?” Jaskier demanded, clutching at his weapon. He wished it were his lute instead, but if wishes were orens, then he’d be a very rich man indeed. 

“Yes.”

Jaskier stared at him, troubled. “That explains absolutely nothing. How could you know he was out here? Let alone alive. Every record says he disappeared -”

“Smelled him coming,” was the only answer he got. 

Jaskier stared at him. Geralt’s ear twitched and Jaskier, Jaskier was only human. A weak human at that. He looked at the fluffy, soft wolf-ear, and fought the urge to reach out and touch it. Geralt would probably chop his arm off if he attempted it, and really, was touching the man’s ears worth it? No. He needed two hands to play the lute, and two hands to pleasure his lovers. Hands were important.

“So you’re telling me if I go into Blaviken they’ll kill me.”

“Yes,” Geralt replied irritably. He shot Jaskier a pinched glare, like the Witcher felt he’d sufficiently explained himself and didn’t need to have it repeated. "Seems they're looking for a bard that broke a curse."

“Guess I’ll follow you then,” Jaskier said, belting his sword on properly. 

Geralt scowled. 

“I won’t survive this wilderness another day!” Jaskier lamented. “There’s monsters and wild animals around here, and who knows if any guardsmen are going to come looking for you, let alone me apparently.”

“They will.”

Jaskier threw his hands into the air. “Then let me travel with you! I’m a great singer, and writer -I can write you ballads, change people’s opinions of you!”

“Don’t need that.”

Jaskier huffed. “Consider it a trade. You get me out of this forest, I’ll write you a song for your troubles.”

Geralt eyed him doubtfully. A long beat stretched between them, and Jaskier considered throwing his arms up and just walking into Blaviken and having it over and done with before Geralt grunted and walked away. Taking it as a sign, Jaskier hurried to catch up.

“I left some things at the tree where you were sleeping,” Jaskier said. “My lute, notebook, I know, nothing important to a Witcher like you -but they’re my livelihood. I can’t afford a new lute; my last one cost me an arm and a leg.”

Geralt grunted. Was it an acknowledgement or agreement? Jaskier didn’t know. But the man didn’t slow or change the direction he was walking. Geralt wasn’t much of a talker, he learned quickly, but that didn’t bother him. Something in his chest, a little bubble of anxiety had dispersed. Well, it couldn’t be helped. The man was a Witcher and Jaskier knew without a doubt that so long as he was in the other man’s company, he was safe. No Leshens, no wolves, no bandits. 

“So where did you get the swords?” Jaskier asked.

“Took them back. Got lucky the Alderman had half a brain and kept them in shape, hanging above his bed.” 

Jaskier whistled. “I’m surprised.”

Geralt grunted in response, perhaps in acknowledgement, and led them further into the forest. He came to a stop, so abruptly that Jaskier nearly walked into his back. Before he could demand what was happening, he noticed the familiar shape of his lute. With a gasp, he scrambled over, cradling his lute to his chest tenderly. He pulled his notebook free, sighing in relief to find it was undamaged. Creased and well-worn, as familiar to him as his own hands. It was half-full of partial ideas, jumbled lyrics and a handful of songs that still needed polishing. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier said, smiling at Geralt.

The Witcher walked further on and Jaskier followed, strumming on his lute delightedly. He sang a few lyrics, cobbling together a song as they made their way through the forest. He thought of Renfri, of the wildness in her eyes and remembered the blank deadness in Stregobor’s eyes. Watching Geralt’s broad shoulders, Jaskier itched to ask him about his past. It wasn’t exactly the kind of thing you asked a stranger about when you barely knew them. Even if Geralt had saved his life, and even though part of his story was known to history. Jaskier didn’t want to rock the boat too much. He could wait until they were out of the forest. When it came down to it, he would argue the necessity of those answers in order to rewrite Geralt’s history, in order to get rid of the name ‘Butcher of Blaviken.’ 

They walked until nightfall, at which point Geralt set about making camp. Exhaustion settled in hard, and Jaskier was more than grateful to lay down beside a warm fire. His body ached. He set his lute aside for the night, too tired to even play.

Geralt prodded at the fire with a branch. “Bard."

"I have a name, you know. It's Jaskier. I promise, I'll answer to it."

"Underneath the stench of sweat and blood, you smell like death.”

“What?” Jaskier rubbed at his eyes. 

“Graveyard soil. Ash. Blood.” Geralt glanced at him, golden eyes glowing ominously in the dark. “You reek like death.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “Gee thanks, I was planning on taking a bath in town but my trip seems to have been delayed.”

“What happened.”

Jaskier stared at him blankly. 

“Stregobor. What happened.”

Jaskier blinked, pushing himself upright. “He died.”

Geralt stared at him.

Jaskier squirmed under his gaze, remembering the way Geralt had pressed a blade to his throat and called him Renfri. He didn’t think the man would appreciate being reminded, and he didn’t want to relive the whole ordeal all over again. He had a few days to think it over, to puzzle out the insanity of it, and while it was fascinating and exciting, he had more questions than answers. 

“Let’s make a deal. I’ll answer your questions if you answer mine.”

Geralt hmmed. After a long pause, he nodded. 

“What happened with Stregobor?” Geralt repeated, leaning forward. 

Jaskier grabbed his lute, strumming it absently. “He died.”

Geralt made a low, frustrated noise. “How?”

“One question each,” Jaskier said, smiling at his own cleverness. It wouldn’t last him long; it was a stall tactic, and a poor one at best, but he wasn’t going to just give the story up for free. “What happened in Blaviken all those years ago?”

Geralt frowned. “I asked a Songbird for a miracle; her keeper didn’t like that, and then I murdered half a dozen people. How did Stregobor die?”

Of course, Jaskier should have known, if he didn’t play fair, Geralt wouldn’t either. His fingers stilled against the strings of his lute, and he eyed it sadly. “Stregobor was obsessed… He had a project he was working on, that he needed a soul for. He wanted yours, but had decided mine would do just fine. His… project, didn’t take kindly to what he’d done, and killed him for it.”

“His project?” Geralt asked, sitting up. He waved a hand to stall Jaskier’s objection. “Ask already.”

“Renfri -tell me about her.”

Geralt crossed his arms, staring into the flickering flames. “She was the last Songbird in at least a century, possibly longer. She was a prisoner to Stregobor, caged day and night. But who cares about monsters, right?” He snorted darkly, shaking his head. “She looked like any other human. Just a young woman, forced to break curses Stregobor had put on townspeople -and then he’d take the money. And she’d do it all over again. She didn’t have a choice, and Stregobor picked on his wealthiest neighbours and his worst enemies, and no one else could catch a break.”

Geralt glanced at him. “What was his project?”

“Bringing Renfri back to life.” 

Geralt gasped, and it was only a soft inhalation, but it sounded so loud in the silence between them. 

“Did he succeed?” Geralt growled, halfway to his feet. “Tell me, bard. Did he do it?”

Jaskier thought about mentioning their deal, trading questions back and forth, but decided otherwise at the intimidating glare Geralt wore. “Yes,” he whispered, after a moment. “He brought her back, and she killed him for it.”

Geralt half-fell, half sat down. “Good for her.”

Jaskier hesitated. “How did she die?”

“I killed her. Scared yet?”

Sitting across from the fire, his swords beside him, wearing nothing but simple black clothing, Jaskier found he wasn’t afraid. His golden eyes were fascinating, and his ears were a temptation worthy of song -but scary? No. Jaskier wasn’t afraid. The fire crackled between them, and Jaskier warmed his hands beside it. Maybe Geralt and Renfri had never been anything more than just a Witcher and a Songbird -but what a story it would have been. 

The ballads they composed about Songbirds always ended in tragedy, their lives cut short by an assassin or a great, terrifying beast. It was known, in songs and stories, that there was only one monster Witchers refused to deal with: Songbirds. Jaskier didn’t know much about Witchers -did anyone really? -but he’d heard how people talked about them. He could remember the Witcher who had come to Lettenhove when he was a child, how his mother had demanded he hide in his rooms and not come out until the beast was slain and the Witcher long gone. Jaskier remembered how people muttered under their breaths, how they spat when the Witcher wasn’t looking, and the slurs they hissed when the beast was dead and gone. Half-blood, freak, demon-spawn and other, more foul names. Jaskier remembered wondering why the cursed the man who’d saved their home from a wraith who’d been killing young men at night.

“She asked me to do it,” Geralt said quietly. “And when I refused, she ordered me.”

Jaskier blinked in surprise, horror creeping in. “You couldn’t have -”

“As she bled out in my arms, she sang about a resting peace.” Geralt shook his head. “And so I slept. She deserves to take her revenge; but I hope she doesn’t decide the world needs to burn with her.” Geralt’s gaze settled on Jaskier, dark and heavy. “If she’s become a cursed, wretched thing, it’ll take a Witcher to stop her.”

Jaskier wanted to protest, but found he couldn’t. Geralt had killed her once, he needn’t do it a second time. 

“Tell me bard, did she sing Stregobor to death or did she use her hands?”

Jaskier swallowed. “She took his blade and pierced his heart with it.” 

He could hear the sound again; Stregobor's gasp of shock, like he hadn't seen it coming. And then the way she had cut into his stomach, the way his soul had screamed as she consumed it. He stared at Geralt for a moment, considering. The words were on the tip of his tongue -and she ate his soul -but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He couldn't.

Geralt had been forced to kill her once; he didn’t need to do it a second time. And Renfri had lived a truncated life, limited to the confines of her golden bars, and she deserved a chance to live her life. 

“Hmm,” was all Geralt said.

They left the forest mid-morning the next day, and Jaskier begged and pleaded for them to stop at the next town. He smelled truly foul, and he was eager to perform. But Geralt had other ideas, apparently, because on entering the town he picked up a work contract almost immediately. Jaskier decided to leave the man to his devices, and booked a room at the inn. It took some sweet talking on Jaskier’s part and a vehement vow to bathe before performing before the innkeeper allowed them in. Not that Geralt joined, of course. The man simply grunted and departed on his monster hunting. Jaskier supposed that after sleeping for a hundred years, he would be bored and itching to get back to the stage as well.

Jaskier took the longest bath of his life, scrubbing away the slime and stench as thoroughly as possible. Underneath all the road grime and dirt, the dust and grass stains, he could see bruises. Stregobor hadn’t healed him fully, just enough to put his shoulder back in place and numb the pain. His shoulder was a mass of ugly, fading bruises. The bruises on his face were masked by stubble and the dark circles under his eyes looked to be from a lack of sleep rather than having been beaten against the forest floor. So he might not have any bed-mates tonight, but he was clean and warm and that was half the battle. The inn keep's son had a spare set of clothes that Jaskier would be paying for with song and dance, and while they were bland and uninspiring, they fit well enough.

He thumbed through his notebook, took the time to tune his lute before heading down to perform. It was a small village, full of simple folk looking for a good time. Geralt wasn’t back yet, Jaskier noted, wondering if he should have followed the man. But they’d made a deal, and even if he wasn’t here to witness his song being performed, Jaskier would keep his word. 

He sang about a Witcher, whose duty was heavy, and for who a Songbird sang. For who could free her from a monster, but a monster slayer? He sang of destiny, beckoning the Witcher ever closer, drawing the unstoppable force towards the fiery Songbird, locked inside her gilded cage. Release me, she begged, let me loose upon the world, for I am worth more than these bars, these coins and this place. But the Witcher was unmoved. Save me, she pleaded, for I have never been outside this cage since I was a girl. The Witcher had seen the guards that surrounded her, and the evil sorcerer that held her imprisoned, and he knew better. I’ll free you, she sang, so sweet, so pretty, if you just let me out. And he sang about the Witcher, who set her free, who fought a town off and escaped into the woods. The Witcher who turned to ask for his song, but found the Songbird, smiling sadly, bidding he draw his blade. He sang about the man who fought for peace, but who could not resist the Songbird’s song, and whose sword pierced her chest. He sang about the Witcher, cursed to a thousand years’ sleep, as repayment for his service.

He didn't have a name for it yet, but it was a hit. Jaskier didn't normally sing about tragedies; they were depressing, and really, people wanted some cheer and warmth in their lives. But not all stories, not every person, got a happy ending their first time around. Witchers least of all. But in terms of changing opinions about Geralt, he thought it was a decent start. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what the other man thought of the song, but the spirit was true. Geralt had been forced to do a terrible thing, with no way to stop himself from doing it. Jaskier wondered why Renfri had betrayed him. She'd promised him freedom, and then ripped it out from his feet. Jaskier would have been furious in Geralt's shoes.

And then he sang happier songs, about fishmonger’s daughters and Scarborough fairs. He was singing about monsters and mayhem when Geralt stomped into the inn. His contract must have gone well, because he’d picked up leather armor. The Witcher took a seat in the farthest corner of the room, a mug of ale in his hands. Jaskier finished his song, leaving to collect a plate of dinner from a smiling inn keep. He sat across from his silver-haired companion.

"I love how you just sit in the corner and brook," Jaskier said, taking a bite of bread. "I also notice you're the only one not clapping after that. Come on, one review. Three words or less."

Geralt rolled his eyes. “They don’t exist.”

“What don’t?” 

“The creatures in your song.”

Jaskier’s eyes lit up. “I have a great idea.”

“No.”

“You’re not even going to hear me out?” Jaskier pouted.

“No.”

“Oh, come on Geralt. This’ll be good for the both of us! Real adventures make better stories, and you sir, smell chock full of them. I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt the White Wolf across the Continent.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I have to return to Kaer Morhen. Winter is nearly here, and it’s been… a very long time since I was home.”

“I won’t be but a silent travel companion! Geralt, please. Kaer Morhen, the possibility of meeting other Witchers, collecting their stories…”

“You? Silent?” Geralt arched a brow. 

“You’d be lost without my chatter, and you know it,” Jaskier said, eating a spoonful of stew. It was the best meal he’d had in weeks. Possibly the only meal in as much time that had more substance to it than grilled fish or rabbit.

“Fine. But you’re not coming into Kaer Morhen with me; we go our separate ways at that point.”

Jaskier grinned, offering his hand. “It’s a deal.”

One day he’d see Kaer Morhen, but it didn’t have to be today. He’d settle for getting all the good stories he could out of Geralt.


	4. Dreaming of Memories

“Oh a sleeping curse you say?” Jaskier said brightly. “Geralt here’s an expert at those.”

“He that Witcher that slept for a thousand years?” the alderman asked, looking at Geralt with renewed hope. “I heard that Witcher had hair the colour of the moon. You could be him.”

Geralt glared at Jaskier, conveying very clearly that this was somehow all his fault. Jaskier disagreed, completely and utterly. He was in no way responsible for them stopping at this backwater village. It wasn’t the first of its kind, and hardly the last either, but at least they’d received a warm welcome. The last town had nearly chased them out with pitchforks and torches, and it was an almost only because once Geralt drew his blade, they backed off. But still, it worried Jaskier.

Witchers went out looking for work -dangerous work, the kind where eventually they would die doing one of those jobs, trying to protect people who didn’t even respect them. It infuriated Jaskier. He wanted to strangle them, silence their voices. So, he sang instead. Posada was the first place he performed “Toss A Coin To Your Witcher” and the rousing success that followed, kept him singing. It unfortunately didn’t prevent them from being caught off-guard by a sylvan, and bullied by elves. It was Geralt who talked them into letting them go. Jaskier had never understood how poorly Witchers were treated, until Geralt spoke of himself like he was a monster.

Now they were here, coin pouches empty, with a vague notice board posting in hand.

“Take me to them,” Geralt said.

“I’ll meet you at the tavern, then,” Jaskier said, watching as Geralt and the alderman headed off.

He knew better by now. Investigations like these were boring, painfully so. Geralt had his enhanced senses, able to smell magic and monsters, able to understand the nature of curses and spells that Jaskier couldn’t see. And while Jaskier had questions, and wanted to know more, asking them at someone’s bedside wasn’t the place.

Faces lit up when they saw his lute, and the tavern owner was bold enough to demand a song before he would consider letting Jaskier and Geralt book a room. Of course, in a town this small, there was only one room available. Two beds at least, thank god. What was the point of staying indoors when they had to take turns sleeping on the floor? Jaskier pulled out Filavandrel’s lute, starting up an energetic dance song to get people on their feet. It worked well. He got a free meal for it, and room and board for him and Geralt. Jaskier cleaned his bowl, and headed upstairs, ready to slip into a hot bath. It had been weeks since his last one.

By the time he was clean, it was the middle of the evening rush, and Jaskier was only too happy to start performing again. Especially with the way the serving girl -Ilsa, he would learn, during a refreshment break, kept eyeing him. No sign of Geralt’s return, which was promising considering the two of them had to share a room. Granted, at least with two beds, it wouldn’t be first time Geralt walked in on him with a lover, cuddled under covers. Jaskier tried to prevent those unfortunate encounters, both for his paramour and out of respect for Geralt. On those occasions, Geralt just growled a displeased out, and he would stand there, brooding, until Jaskier hurried his partner out of the room.

Ilsa was quite lovely, Jaskier noticed as he sang on. Dark hair, big doe eyes, and she walked with grace. She neatly swayed away from a drunk’s hands, and her laugh was musical when she handed a drink over to the next patron. Jaskier smiled at her when he took his next break, draining a mug of water with relief. He didn’t have a chance to request food, before she was carrying over a steaming bowl of chowder and what looked like fresh bread.

“You’re an angel,” Jaskier told her, plopping down at his table. “The light of my life. Truly.”

Ilsa giggled. “You look like you need it.” She gestured around the room, at the smiles and chatter guests wore. “I can’t remember the last time I saw people _laughing_.” She batted her big brown eyes at him. “It’s all thanks to you.”

Jaskier smiled warmly. “All in a day’s job for a bard.” He glanced around the room. Sure, he couldn’t kill monsters, but he had other abilities the Witcher did not. Something warm, and _right_ , settled in his chest.

“You must be a very skilled bard,” she said.

Jaskier grinned. “Well, I like to think so. One day, I’m going to be the most famous bard on the Continent. You just watch.”

“I will, gladly,” Ilsa said, beaming at him. There was something charming about her faith and sincerity, that warmed Jaskier to her. “But I’m afraid I have to go back to work.”

“After work, if you’d like, I could read you poetry.”

Ilsa grinned, dimples flashing, and Jaskier felt his heart beat faster. She was beautiful, and sweet.

“I would like that very much, Master Jaskier.”

Jaskier grinned at her, and spent a moment watching her as she walked away. He dove into his chowder with gusto, and while he’d certainly had better, he’d definitely had worse before. It was rich and creamy, full of vegetables and just the barest essence of meat. The bread _was_ fresh, just as he’d suspected, and he savoured each bite. On the road, fresh bread was a rarity. He played a few more songs, ending with the story of the White Wolf who’d slept for a hundred years. Ilsa went around table to table collecting dishes and taking them to the kitchen, as people wandered out. Jaskier brought his own dishes to the counter, winking at Ilsa, before heading to his room. He unclipped his sword and stashed it underneath his bed; most women didn’t appreciate seeing a blade in the bedroom. It made them nervous, understandably so. Or unbearably excited, but Ilsa didn’t seem the type.

It wasn’t long before she knocked on the open door and Jaskier waved her in happily. She leaned against the door, pressing it shut before stepping daintily towards him. He was sitting in front of the fireplace, a book of poetry open on his lap. Ilsa reached down, her slim fingers wrapping around his collar as she tugged. Surprised, Jaskier got to his feet, letting her pull him towards his bed. His poetry book tumbled to the floor, completely forgotten.

“You’re a bold one,” he said, his surprise getting the better of him.

“Is that a complaint?” she asked, pushing him by the shoulders until he was lying down.

“No, no, not at all,” Jaskier said, laughing nervously. “I usually prefer a little wining and dining first.”

“That’s okay,” Ilsa said, climbing on top of him. “I don’t.”

“Are you really quite sure about this?” Jaskier asked, setting a hand on her waist. “Again, not complaining. Not me. Just you seem so sweet…” And like she definitely deserved better. Really, the poetry reading wouldn’t have lasted that long, it never did.

“Are you worried about my virtue, Master Bard?” she asked, reaching back to undo the button on her dress. “Truly?”

Jaskier swallowed nervously. “Only worried for you.”

Ilsa smiled, and there was something dark behind her brown eyes. “For a Witcher’s pet, you really aren’t all that bright, are you?” she asked. “Come to think of it, neither is he if he’s willing to let you out of his sight.”

Jaskier thrashed under her, watching in horror as a pair of great leather wings unfurled from her back. She brought her hands down onto his shoulders and as he opened his mouth to scream, she kissed him.

The world went black.

_Jaskier was vaguely aware of a heavy weight against his chest, but he couldn’t say why. He patted at his chest, but there was nothing there. He settled back onto his stool, the golden bars of his cage as familiar as always. A line-up stretched between him and the town entrance, possibly even further. It was like this, day in and out, and the only people allowed to approach were those Stregobor had cursed. He knew the feel of the man’s slimy magic like his own. He sang under his breath nervously, eyeing the bars of his cage warily. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten here, but he knew it was better than being out there, on his own._

_He saw the Witcher, the silver hair, the two swords and his yellowed eyes. Wolven-ears stood atop his head, and the Witcher crossed his arms irritably as villagers gave him a wide berth. Even in the line. Stregobor had better things to do than stand around, monitoring Jaskier’s every move, and he was relieved to see the sorcerer had taken his payment and left. The rest would be up to him, then. He might have sung without the sorcerer present, but he didn’t have the soul for it. Not today. Stregobor made him sing, to break the curses, to rake in his cash and leave._

“ _Bring me the Witcher,” he demanded._

_Of course, no one_ actually _brought him the Witcher, but the line parted. Geralt walked up to the cage, eyeing him warily._

“ _What can I do for a Witcher?” he asked, standing up. The cage was big enough that he had plenty of room to stand and walk, but a cage was still a cage._

“ _Why are you caged, bird?” he asked, staring at him with piercing golden eyes. Sympathy, or perhaps it was pity, filled his gaze._

_Jaskier bristled. “It’s for my own safety. Unless you’d rather kill a sorcerer, some deadbeat thugs and my step-mother; I’m safer in here, than out.”_

“ _Not even the worst of monsters get caged,” Geralt said, like he hadn’t even spoken. “They say you’re the best of monster-kind -but you’re the only kind I’ve met who’s been locked away.”_

_Jaskier bared his teeth in a half-smile. “Maybe I like it here.”_

_The Witcher smiled not like other people did, for his was barely a whisper of a smile. There was no greed in his eyes, no hunger, when he looked at Jaskier. Just that maddening pity. Jaskier was a Songbird -the only one able to free a Witcher from his duty, the only one capable of breaking any curse, promising any reward. And yes, Jaskier charged for his services, and half of them went to Stregobor for his “protection” fee, but Jaskier was here because he_ chose _to be._

_Just because he couldn’t leave whenever he wanted, didn’t mean he didn’t get to leave. One day that bloody sorcerer would be careless, and he’d forget about the knife served with dinner, and Jaskier could make quick work of him then. So no, he was no prisoner. There was no better way to kill your enemy than by getting close to them. Once, he’d foolishly thought magic didn’t work against him, that silver was surely the only weapon to defeat him._

_But it was gold that proved to be his downfall. He was held, pinioned, between the soft metal weakening him, day in and out, and the sorcerer’s vile magic._

“ _I doubt that,” Geralt said, eyeing the golden bars distastefully._

“ _They work very well at keeping monsters out, the ones who wear human skins and those who don’t,” Jaskier snarled, pressing against the bars to glower at the man._

“ _Do you want out?”_

_Jaskier stared, reaching his hand through the bars. It was a narrow fit, but possible. His fingers caught on the wolf-head medallion Geralt wore, and with the barest tug, the Witcher leaned in closer. Jaskier smiled ferally._

“ _You kill that damned sorcerer, and I’ll give you anything you want.”_

_Jaskier was fourteen when Stregobor found him, raped and bleeding out in the forest. He couldn’t get away. So instead, he sang, and Stregobor’s magic washed off him. He pushed himself to his feet and fled, but the assassins didn’t stop. They never stopped. He stole when he needed, sold himself when his light fingers couldn’t grab what he needed, and at the end of the day, he chose to walk into Stregobor’s golden cage. But the charms that had been placed on it, forbade Jaskier from harming another with his voice. It caused him agony, bright and raw, pain like lightning arching through his body. Stregobor could turn it on, or off, at will. But he never did. And so Jaskier waited the day to hold a blade in hand again, that he could pierce Stregobor’s fatty heart and take vengeance._

“ _I’ll come back tonight,” Geralt murmured softly. “Get you out.”_

“ _Just kill the sorcerer, it’ll be easier,” Jaskier pleaded, clutching onto the wolf-head medallion. “He won’t stop until I’m dead.” And there was no way Jaskier would continue to live his life on the run. No, no, he would stand his ground and fight until death._

_But Geralt shook his head, and gently pried Jaskier’s fingers from his medallion._

“ _I’ll free you from the Path,” Jaskier said, desperately. “Just pick a blade in my hand, and get me out of here. I can do the rest.”_

_Geralt turned to him, shock painted across his face. In a blink, it was gone. One wolf-ear twitched, and his hand hovered over his blade. “Fine.”_

_Jaskier sank to his knees in relief, watching as the Witcher disappeared. But there were still people, clustering around him and his cage, demanding and begging for a song. It had been years since Jaskier willingly sang, but he thought, for the Witcher he could do it._

_He didn’t speak by choice, he didn’t sing by it either, and the crowd gradually dissipated. It was known that Songbirds were sensitive creatures, with fragile egos, and while they praised him their words were hollow and empty. Stregobor couldn’t make him dance when he didn’t hold his strings. And while the sorcerer was distracted, and Jaskier wondered whether the Witcher was just lucky, or if he somehow knew the sorcerer would be occupied, Jaskier waited. There were no orders for his cage to be brought in -or more accurately, there was no sorcerer to float his cage this way and that, so he had been left outside for the night._

_He watched the smoke rise with bated breath, and then Geralt was there. Jaskier knew Witchers could use magic, but watching as the golden lock melted beneath Igni was altogether different. Geralt grabbed the bars and forced them open, and for the first time in five years, Jaskier stumbled out of the cage. He didn’t plan to waste a second of it, grabbing Geralt’s wrist and hauling him through the back-alleys and paths until they were safe within the forest. He cried out with joy, spinning a dance of delight before grabbing the Witcher’s face and planting a kiss on those pouting lips._

_Her lips lingered for only a moment, before she danced away. The words came freely as she wrapped her arms around the trunk of a tree, and she darted back to Geralt, grabbing and pulling at his hand as she led them deeper into the forest. Stregobor would be gone for the week. There were no cursed people waiting for her to break their curses, no demanding assholes shaking the cage, throwing things at her. Geralt followed without complaint._

_When she was too tired to go on further, she pulled Geralt to a stop, gazing up at him in delight. “You’re the handsomest man I’ve seen in a very long time.”_

_Geralt’s golden eyes flared with arousal, or suspicion, she wasn’t entirely certain. And she didn’t really care._

“ _I’ll set you free once I have a blade in my hand,” she promised. “But for now, for this moment, I’m not charging you a single copper.” She winked, nerves chasing through her system. She hadn’t done this often, even less often when there was no coin involved, but it mattered to her, deeply. “And I’m as barren as you, in case you were worried. A Songbird born under a Black Sun, cursed until the day I die, so they say.”_

“ _You aren’t cursed,” Geralt argued, setting his cloak aside. “Whatever they say. You’re a Songbird, aren’t you? Blessed by the gods, capable of anything you set your mind to.”_

“ _I look all that capable in those golden bars, Master Witcher?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “I didn’t think so.”_

“ _You looked sad,” he said, softly, awkwardly setting his hand on her shoulder._

_For a Witcher, he was young, she realized. But it was pleasant anyway. “Are we going to talk or fuck, Witcher?” she asked, pressing against him. “Because I don’t have all night.”_

_After, they spoke in soft whispers and feather-light touches, and Renfri thought she could finally learn what peace was. Geralt had never thought about the possibility of being free of the Path, he admitted, and wasn’t that just like Witchers? Raised to never question, to never doubt their lot in life. And here she was, a shining salvation to all Witcher kind. All monster kind, really. It wouldn’t be long before other creatures crawled out to attack her, to take her power for their own._

_She was every monster’s desire. Consuming a Songbird whole, or in pieces, would increase their power infinitely. But here, in the arms of a Witcher, she felt safe. It took hours before he fell asleep, but she couldn’t. So she dressed, drew his steel blade, and wandered off to practice. She was familiar with blades, had trained around them as a child._

_A princess, really, the apple of her father’s eye until he remarried. She learned the blade because it fascinated her, and she fell in love with it when she cut down her rapist and his thug friends. But it had been years since she held a sword in hand, and Geralt’s was heavier, bulkier than she was accustomed to._

_For the first time in years, she sang. She sang about the glory of the sword, how true its strength was, how it was capable of cleaving foes in two. It was a dark melody, and she was mindful to focus on what the sword could do, so as not to curse it. She barely knew her powers. What she did know, she had learned from Stregobor and his endless lectures and readings from ancient tomes about previous Songbirds. She hated it._

“ _The first beast you meet, will fall beneath your sturdy blows, like a fleeing cheat, unable to keep on his toes.” She laughed to herself at her words, but it didn’t matter. The blade strengthened, she could feel it pulse with her music._

_They spent days together before it happened. Before Stregobor found them, having returned days too soon, before she was prepared. He threw the golden chain at her, and it wrapped around her body, and she cried out in despair._

“ _Kill me!” she cried, staring at Geralt in desperation. “I won’t go back to this life!” She clawed at the chain wrapped around her futilely. “Kill me Geralt!” she ordered, feeling her magic surge out and slam into the Witcher. Never before had she used a Command; never had she been so desperate._

_Geralt’s eyes widened and he lunged forward, sword already in hand. Distantly she heard Stregobor cry out, trying to haul her out of Geralt’s reach, but it was too late. His blade of silver slid through her flesh, just under her collarbone, and clean through her shoulder._

“ _Sleep, oh Master Witcher,” she crooned, and he dropped to his knees._

_Geralt pulled her into his arms. “Not like this,” he said quietly._

“ _Sleep for an eternity, oh Master Witcher. Slumber so deep no guilt can penetrate. Dream of happier days, of a lifetime free from the Path and its duties.” Her fingers curled around his wolf-head medallion, and she gazed at him with what adoration she could. Her grasp was weak, and she was distantly aware of Stregobor screaming, but it didn’t matter. Geralt’s eyes fluttered shut. “Dream and be free, Geralt of Rivia, for a thousand years or more, and may you wake to a Songbird in a world much brighter.”_

“Jaskier! Fuck.”

Jaskier came to groggily, firm fingers tangled in his hair, pressed against a muscular chest. His clothes were wet, and sticky, pressed against his chest. His chest -no, just under his collarbone, right where his birthmark was -ached.

“Geralt?” Jaskier mumbled, blinking to adjust. The world felt different. _He_ felt different.

Geralt pulled back, his fingers still tangled in Jaskier’s hair. Geralt looked older, with stubble on his jaw, and his white hair loose and wild. It wasn’t the first time Jaskier had seen him like this after a hunt, but he felt… He felt like Geralt should be clean-shaven, with his hair tied back. Remembering felt like trying to catch fish bare-handed, but he kept coming up empty handed.

“Fuck,” Geralt said eloquently. “Fuck.”

“What… happened?”

There had been gold -no. A woman. A very pretty woman on top of him -Renfri’s eyes -and no, that wasn’t right either. Jaskier blinked, staring at Geralt. There were two faces for the man, one he knew from the road, stubbled and a little wild, and that other face. The vulnerable one. Jaskier had never seen it before.

“Why’re you pulling on my hair?” Jaskier asked, struggling to move. There was a heavy weight across his legs, and with Geralt’s grip, he couldn’t move. “Normally it takes me a few drinks to get to this point but I don’t remember drinking.”

“I’m trying to stop the bleeding,” Geralt bit out. “So stop squirming.”

Jaskier stilled, frowning at the other man sluggishly. “I’m bleeding? What happened?”

“It was a Mara,” Geralt said, in lieu of an answer. “Type of hybrid. Puts you to sleep then feeds on your dreams, and your blood.”

“Dreams?” Jaskier repeated, playing over the fuzzy details he remembered. Remembered of the dream, or of something else entirely. “Was I dreaming?” Because most of it didn’t feel like a dream. He remembered the press of those aching golden bars, the abject helplessness and despair he could never shake off, and the burning hope to get a blade in his hand. Things got fuzzy after they made it to the forest…

“Just dreams,” Geralt said, not unkindly. “There. It’s mostly stopped.”

The Witcher stepped back, boots squelching in some kind of liquid. Jaskier sat up immediately and had to vomit over the side of the bed. Partly because his head was spinning and aching, and partly because Ilsa’s body lay at the end of his bed. She’d been cut in half, nearly, some of her still over Jaskier. He squirmed, kicking and pushed himself off the bed and stumbled towards the nearest garbage can where he proceeded to empty his stomach.

“Sorry,” Geralt said, but there was no apology in his tone. “You were bleeding significantly.”

Jaskier waved his apology off, heaving again at the thought of sweet Ilsa’s body. She hadn’t been real, he told himself. She hadn’t been real. Not for one second. He startled when Geralt set his hand on his back.

“She wasn’t real, whatever transpired. Just a monster in disguise.”

Jaskier spat into the bucket, pulling back from the wretched smell. He was covered in blood. “Yeah, well, next time I won’t pick the monster.”

“She picked you.”

Jaskier took a shuddering breath. “That doesn’t make me _feel_ any better.”

“It should. She picked you, and you survived.”

Jaskier shoved Geralt away, staggering to his feet. “She was a nice girl.” He could see her corpse just out of the corner of his eye, and he swallowed down a wave of nausea. “I was going to read her poetry. And whatever you say, I would’ve been dead if you hadn’t…” He gestured, miming the rise and fall of a sword, indicating Ils- the Mara’s downfall.

He felt sick. He’d just wanted to read her some poetry, maybe fall in love all over again for a little while, before they hit the road. She’d seemed sweet. Kind, even. Jaskier inhaled, looking up at the ceiling, blinking hard.

“I’m not like you, Geralt. It’s not that cut and dry for me.” She had been a person.

Geralt snorted.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Jaskier said quickly, turning to the Witcher. He remembered a lifetime ago watching the man run him through with his sword because he told him so, but those weren’t his memories. “This is a job they raised you for. And you can cope with it better than I can. It’s just going to take me some time.”

“They made us all for this job, Jaskier,” Geralt said. “Witchers, born of demons and humans. Abandoned at Witcher keeps, and then _raised_ in this life. I’m sorry she died,” and he almost sounded apologetic, “but she was killing _you_. She’d left those others in permanent sleep so she could slip into their rooms and feed on them again.”

“Yes, and you’ve saved my life for it,” Jaskier said, turning to Geralt. He fought the urge to clasp the other man’s hand, to touch him, to try and comfort him. He didn’t dare. “And you know, this really does make you my very best friend,” he added slyly, watching as Geralt rolled his eyes and turned away from him.

“I know I’m your very best friend,” Jaskier said confidently. “It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything about it. It’s quite alright. I’ll gladly be the best friend you’ve ever had. Quite possibly your only friend, but you’re already getting the hang of this.”

The light of the fire lit Mara’s corpse, and Jaskier could see that all of her features were different now. There was no sign of the sweet maiden who had served him drink and food earlier. Instead, her skin was wrinkled and leathery, nearly grey in complexion with overly large wings in comparison to her slight form. Jaskier inhaled sharply. It was just another monster. And women could sometimes be as evil as men.

As for those memories fading in the background, the ones that didn’t belong to him, Jaskier feared to explore them any more. But he knew with certainty, without having to think on it, that waking Geralt should have been impossible. Unless he was a Songbird, and Jaskier certainly would have noticed if he had magic powers when he sang. For one, men and women would have been throwing themselves at his feet, and secondly, Valdo Marx would be six feet under by now. It was impossible. Jaskier? A Songbird? Not possible. _But then,_ he wondered, _how had Geralt woken up?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the dream sequence makes sense. Jaskier basically gets entangled in those old memories, but he doesn't have a way to make sense of it, so he thinks it's him in his dream. But as things progress, he gets sucked into the memories, and basically remembers the dream as it happened.
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you liked it, and please leave a comment if you can! :)


	5. The Company We Keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I finally grinded out enough extra quests to start the dlc for the Witcher 3 and I got really, really absorbed.

The journey to Kaer Morhen was long, but Geralt never seemed concerned about it. Not until the ground started freezing at night, and when they woke there was a dusting of frost across the vegetation. Even then, he barely seemed concerned. They pushed towards the Blue Mountains, where Geralt would press onto the fortress and Jaskier would head for Loc Muinne. As much as he wanted to see what the legendary Witcher fortress looked like, Geralt had made it very clear in no uncertain terms the kind of painful death Jaskier would meet either during the trek or by surviving to meet the other Witchers. He wasn’t sure he believed Geralt, but he also wasn’t willing to risk his life to see the man proven wrong. Knowing Geralt, knowing what Witchers went through, Jaskier was relatively confident that they couldn’t possibly be so terrible and cruel. But the chilly winters were enough to have Jaskier buying fur-lined clothes and boots, preparing for the lengthy journey ahead of him. Geralt seemed less concerned.

It all changed as they broke camp on their final day, at the crossroads that pointed them in either direction. Geralt heard it first, of course.

“Get down!”

“What is it?” Jaskier asked, ducking reflexively. Nothing.

“Down, now Jaskier!”

Jaskier heard the distinct sound of silver being drawn and threw himself flat to the ground just as the air whooshed past his head. A large shadow soared past them, circling, and Jaskier rolled to the side, trying to find shelter. Steel wouldn’t help him here, but he drew his blade anyway. It made him feel less powerless.

“What the hell is that?” Jaskier demanded, getting to his feet in a crouch. He wasn’t sure what he could do against it; the thing was massive, furred, with great powerful feathered wings.

“Basilisk,” Geralt growled, downing a potion. “Something -someone -must have disrupted its nest. They don’t normally come this far north, this time of year anyway.”

The basilisk shrieked and flew at them again. Jaskier yelped, diving away from its looming shadow. A blast of air and an offended squawk later, and the battle was on. The basilisk was massive, scales like a snake, with leathery wings, and their fight was horrifying and awe-inspiring to behold. The basilisk flapped its wings, stunning Geralt, and moved to pounce onto him, claws nearly a foot long in length when Geralt knocked it aside with a blast of air. Geralt leapt towards it, sword hacking at it. Red blood splattered, hissing as it met with the cold ground. With a ferocious roar, the basilisk’s tattered wing knocked Geralt onto the ground, and it released a spray of poison over the man before using those terrifyingly long claws to slash at Geralt. Geralt rolled out of the way, swiping his arm over his face to clear the goop away. One wing dangled uselessly at its side, and the other claw caught him in the chest and the basilisk threw him to the ground. Geralt yelled in pain, thrusting his sword clean into the basilisk’s chest.

Geralt had always said that death for a Witcher was just one mistake away, but Jaskier never thought he’d see it happen. The basilisk fell to the side, dead, Geralt’s sword still embedded in its chest. Jaskier sheathed his blade, tripping over his own feet as he ran to Geralt’s side. Basilisk blood coated his armour, and Jaskier wasted no time in pulling and prying the leather pieces off him. His hands stung, but he ignored the pain. Geralt groaned.

“How bad is it?”

Jaskier pulled the tattered remains of Geralt’s shirt aside and stared. It was bad. Three of the claws had punctured, deeply. The others were grazes, but even they were worryingly long. Jaskier ran to his bag, dragging it over. He hauled out the linen first, pressing the fabric against the punctures that were bleeding heavily.

“If you were human, I’d say you were dead,” Jaskier laughed nervously. “But this? A flesh wound at most, Geralt.”

“Hm.”

And it wasn’t a hm full of confidence, and a glance at the Witcher revealed he was staring at the sky thoughtfully. Thoughtful wasn’t a word he was accustomed to associating with Geralt. He didn’t think it meant anything good could come from it.

“It’ll be healed by tonight, and in the morning we can go our separate ways,” Jaskier said with forced optimism. If Geralt were a human, he would likely bleed out. There were no towns or healers nearby. From Geralt’s accounts, Kaer Morhen was a day’s journey through the pass, possibly longer depending on your pace.

“Did you know it’s a blue moon tonight?” Geralt asked out of the blue, pushing Jaskier’s hands away to press the fabric against his wounds.

“Uh, no,” Jaskier muttered, pulling out a salve that was meant to keep wounds clean and promote better healing. “I didn’t know you paid attention to the lunar cycle that closely.”

“I have to,” Geralt said, oddly quiet.

Jaskier glanced at him, brow furrowed. “Why?” He spread the salve over the grazes. No use putting it over the still-bleeding punctures, though he was glad to see the flow was slowing.

“Jaskier…”

Jaskier turned to him, puzzled. “Geralt?”

“I’m a half-demon. And once every blue moon… my human side takes over.”

Jaskier stared.

Geralt grit his teeth. “God dammit, Jaskier. I’m not going to be able to regenerate in time!”

Jaskier looked between the wounds and Geralt, confused, and feeling hopelessly lost. “I don’t… understand.”

“Basilisk poison, in my blood. The golden oriole I took earlier can only do so much. By the time it wears off, when I’ll need the second dose…” Geralt stared at the sky again. “I’ll be human for the rest of the night. Until the sun rises.”

The “I’ll be dead by then” went unsaid. It hung, heavy and brooding, in the silence that stretched between them.

“Okay, okay, no.”

Geralt turned to him, exasperated. “Just go.”

“I am not leaving you to die alone!” Jaskier exclaimed, incredulous. “No one wants to die alone. We’re like a day away from Kaer Morhen, someone there can help, surely. I’ll get you there.”

“We won’t make it. Just… go, Jaskier.”

Jaskier glared at him. “Bollocks that!” He set about bandaging him up, before pulling Geralt to his feet, who very begrudgingly did so. “I am not leaving until you are safe in Kaer Morhen. The Witchers can patch you up. And what’s all this about turning human? How is that a thing? And why haven’t you mentioned it before?”

Geralt pulled his sword from the basilisk’s chest, wiping the blood off. “I’m going to die when I turn human, Jaskier. And every half-demon, every Witcher, has a certain time period where their human side takes over.”

“What about for when their demon side takes over?”

“They train that out of most of us. Control above all else. I’ve heard that in Skellige, the School of the Bears, their Witchers have learned how to turn into bears and embrace it as part of their heritage.” Geralt sheathed his blade.

“That sounds amazing.”

“I wouldn’t want to be a wolf,” Geralt said, before Jaskier had the chance to ask. “What good is a wolf against a Leshen? Nekkers?” He shook his head. “Vesemir will know what to do with my body.” He paused. "If he's still alive."

Jaskier tensed. “We aren’t talking about this. I’ll get you to the front door of Kaer Morhen if it kills me!”

He was not going to let Geralt die. Not like this.

Geralt shook his head patronizingly, but offered no further argument. As the day wore on, as they made their way through the pass, Jaskier noticed how Geralt’s movements became more laboured. He believed they were making good time, but whenever he asked Geralt, the man simply didn’t reply. When it started snowing, neither of them said anything. Jaskier knew it wasn’t a good sign. By the time the sun was sinking below the horizon, they’d both lit torches and Jaskier saw Geralt’s eyes had turned blue. When the sun was gone, when it was just the light of their torches, Jaskier watched as the silver sheen of the Witcher’s hair faded to black.

Geralt staggered, and would have fallen if Jaskier hadn’t caught him.

“Just leave me here,” Geralt rasped, his hand clenching in the fabric of Jaskier’s cloak.

“No,” Jaskier said, setting his hand over Geralt’s. He gently uncurled Geralt’s grasp, his heart beating a little faster. “I’m taking you to Kaer Morhen.”

Looking at him like this, Geralt looked almost young and vulnerable. Neither were words Jaskier had ever associated to him before, and he didn’t want to start either. So he grabbed Geralt’s hand and pulled him along after him, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. He talked about his childhood, his singing lessons, the reading and writing, his tutors who were quick to use a ruler and how Jaskier was quicker at dodging. He talked about his sword lessons, how utterly hopeless he was and how he despaired of ever living up to his father’s approval. His cousin Ferrant had excelled. It was years before Jaskier was even moderately decent, and while it wasn’t a skill he was naturally good at, he was familiar and comfortable with a blade. He talked about his success the day he beat Ferrant in a sword fight, and how he knowingly refused every rematch after that.

He forced them to half, adjusting his gloves. He pulled his ring off, pocketing it. He had heard horror stories about maidens and jewellery who got lost in the cold, and he had no desire to repeat it. Geralt could barely stand upright, wincing in pain. His complexion was worryingly pale, or perhaps it was just more starkly apparent underneath black hair than silver. Jaskier quickly pulled his gloves back on, adjusting his lute and their gear before slinging Geralt’s arm around his shoulder. There was no way for him to keep up with Jaskier’s pace as it was, so he would help.

Snow fell heavier, prickling against his cheeks. Geralt’s torch had fallen some time ago, so Jaskier kept them walking, torch held aloft. He kept talking, to keep him sane, and to hear Geralt’s breathy laugh against his neck, and his mumbled commentary. If he had that, he knew Geralt wasn’t dead yet. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the humanness of Geralt or the fear pressed in against his heart, but the man didn’t feel as heavy as he should have.

So he talked about his lucky charm. He met the Countess de Stael when he was but a child, and she was little more than a young teen herself. She’d lost her silver ring, and he’d spent ages hunting it down to present it to her with all the fanfare an eight-year old could muster. He’d asked her to marry him, in return for the ring, and she had turned him down with all the imperiousness of a young woman yet repulsed by boys. But she took the ring with her. When next he saw her, he was nearly twelve summers, and she her sixteenth. He sang for her, and she clapped. And maybe it was a boring story, but it was the start of his first loves -both for music and for the Countess de Stael.

When he was sixteen, his songs brought all the ladies. But he was interested only in the Countess de Stael, and so it was to her he sang. He sang about an enchanted rose as he picked a crimson flower, promising it to the Countess, assuring her how the petals would never fall so long as their love remained true. Shortly after that, they fell into bed together. Jaskier told the story of how she was at first terrified of the flower, for its petals didn’t fall, that she consulted her family’s mage before returning to Jaskier that spring. She did inform him that there was nothing special about his rose, according to the mage, for it was just a flower. In apology, she gave him a silver ring with blue stone worked between the band, and asked he always wear it. It was days before he left for Oxenfurt at the time, and he kept his word.

When he returned home two years later, it was to find the Countess de Stael had married. He tried to speak to her, just the once, and she had her guards throw him out. For she was a married woman. The rose, he learned, had withered and crumbled around the time he fell in love at Oxenfurt. Countess de Stael would not speak of him. He always wore the ring she had given him, for since she had given it to him, whenever he sang it gave a comforting hum against his finger.

Jaskier couldn’t feel his hands, and his cheeks were numb with cold. Geralt’s weight slowed him down, and with a worried glance, he noticed the Witcher’s eyes had drifted shut. Swearing under his breath, Jaskier pushed on. Winds whipped up and blew his torch out, so Jaskier abandoned it. It was slow moving in the dark, with treacherous stones in the way, but Jaskier didn’t let it stop either of them. He talked about Oxenfurt instead, about his Seven Liberal Arts, about mastering geography because it was easiest to sneak liquor into classrooms in disguise of the large textbooks they favoured.

“Let me die in peace,” Geralt croaked. “Stop talking.”

“I’ll stop talking when I can see Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier replied without missing a beat.

“It’s there,” Geralt growled, pointing at the mountain top.

It was the first he’d said in hours, and Jaskier’s hopes surged. But he didn’t stop talking, and Geralt slipped out of consciousness several more times, each longer than the last. His skin had taken on a rather sickly pallor, and his body spasmed with pain every so often. He swallowed, working what saliva he could get to start singing.

Singing came as naturally to him as breathing, and so he sang to Geralt. How strength was returning to his limbs, how when the sun rose, Geralt would still be breathing. He sang about how the mighty White Wolf couldn’t die to some pesky poison -he was stronger than that. Jaskier sang until he had no voice left, but he didn’t dare stop to take a drink. He didn’t know if Geralt could last that long. Exhaustion pulled at his limbs, and his shoulders and back ached from carrying the Witcher for so long, but he was terrified to stop. So he didn’t.

Jaskier put one foot in front of the other, and that was his sole focus. Keep moving. Eventually he would reach the fortress. The mountain pass gave way to a well-worn path, up a winding trail, to great wooden doors. But none of that mattered to Jaskier, or to Geralt. One foot forward. Then the next. That was all that mattered. One foot forward, then the other.

“ _What the fuck_ -Geralt?!”

Jaskier’s legs gave out underneath him.

“Vesemir! Eskel!” a man’s voice rang out, echoing around them. “Get your potions! The White Wolf’s come home!”

Hands grabbed at him and Jaskier groaned, trying to fight them off. A wrinkled face with yellow eyes appeared. “You’ve done good, we’ll take care of you both now. Gonna need you to let go now, though.”

Jaskier let go and slipped into the welcoming darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I picture this human side of Geralt as Melot from Tristan and Isolde.
> 
> (If you're familiar with Inu Yasha at all, I just have to say writing this fic that's inspired by it, and finding out today that the anime is getting a sequel has been a wild ride. What are the odds? What strange timing, even.)
> 
> I know it's a bit of a shorter chapter, but I needed a transition to Kaer Morhen, and I also really wanted to show off the human side of Witchers/half-demons.
> 
> Anyway, I really hope you guys like this chapter! Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment if you can.


	6. Wolves of Kaer Morhen

Jaskier woke slowly, blinking up at a stone ceiling. Warm firelight lit the room, and he could hear a fire crackling pleasantly nearby. He propped himself up using his elbows, looking around the room in confusion. Geralt. He pushed himself out of bed, limbs heavy and numb with sleep. Someone had taken the time to remove his cloak and boots, so he must have made it to Kaer Morhen. The stone floor was frighteningly cold to his bare feet and he leapt onto the bear skin rug beside the fireplace, where he found his socks and boots. Someone had left them out to dry, and he pulled them on quickly, relishing in the warmth. He spared a moment to be grateful no one had decided to undress him, grabbing his cloak as he headed out the bedroom door. 

Down a winding staircase, he exited into a hall where he could hear voices. Men’s voices. He followed them to what once must have been a grand hall, but time had worn it down. New mortar and bricks would be needed to fix the patches in the roof, and plenty of work besides for the drafty walls where cracks had started to spread. He could feel the chill seep into the room, and was grateful to have grabbed his cloak.

There were three Witchers and a young woman sitting at the table, mugs in their hands, steaming bowls before them. It smelled wonderful. 

“Is Geralt okay?” Jaskier asked, stepping towards them.

If they’d been concerned about his presence, they would have said something sooner. Except, he realized, the young woman seemed surprised to see him.

“Oh, he’s fine,” answered the youngest looking of the Witchers’, a smirk on his face. “He’s just got a bit of a hangover, from the whole human thing.”

The scarred-Witcher and the grey-haired one both shot the younger Witcher identical scornful looks. 

He threw his hands up defensively. “He clearly already knows! Black hair, baby blues -he obviously saw the whole thing.”

The scarred Witcher sighed, turning to Jaskier. “You have to understand, it’s a private matter. We aren’t comfortable with humans… knowing about it.”

“It takes a day or two before our strength fully returns,” the grey-haired Witcher explained. “The poison has run its course, and Geralt is fine.”

“Minus his bruised ego,” cackled the younger of them. 

The young woman lightly hit his arm, shaking her head in disapproval. He rolled his eyes at her. 

“Oh,” Jaskier said, the adrenaline draining out of him. He felt weaker than he was used to, and still tired. “How long have I been out?”

“Most of the day, it’s late evening now,” replied the scarred man. “And forgive our manners -whatever Lambert says, some of us have them. I’m Eskel.”

The grey-haired Witcher, with similar coloured furs draped over his clothes nodded. “Vesemir.”

“Priscilla,” said the woman, eyeing Jaskier appreciatively. “And this here is Lambert,” she added, gesturing to the other Witcher. Lambert raised a mocking hand.

“I’m Julian Pankrantz, but my friends call me Jaskier,” he said. 

Lambert snorted into his drink. “‘Butterucp?’ Really?”

Even Eskel was smiling.

“Man, I am never letting Geralt live this one down,” Lambert said, shaking his head.

“I hear we owe thanks to you,” Vesemir said, without acknowledging the earlier antics. Jaskier reluctantly turned away from them, wondering what was so funny about his name in connection to Geralt. “We heard what became of Geralt in Blaviken, and we tried to break the curse, but there was nothing we could do.”

“We thought it would take a Songbird,” Eskel said. “So we waited, and listened, in case one turned up.”

“Thank you, for bringing him here,” Vesemir said, offering his hand.

Jaskier shook it numbly. “I didn’t -I woke him up accidentally.”

“And then dragged him through the valley and mountain passes to get here,” Eskel said, laughter in his voice. “Not just anyone can out-stubborn Geralt.”

Jaskier flushed, embarrassed. “I wasn’t going to let him die. The man’s barely lived yet!” He shifted uncertainly. “I’m sorry about crashing here -I know you don’t let visitors stay, or well, visit…” He glanced at Priscilla, wondering what her story was. She looked entirely human. 

“His knight in shining armour's called ‘Buttercup,’” Lambert muttered under his breath, shoulders shaking with laughter. “You dragged his sorry ass up here, you can stay as long as you like.”

Vesemir nodded. “You’ve saved his life twice over from what I’ve heard. You’re welcome to come whenever you like, and stay as long as you want. Just don’t expect that you won’t be pulling your own weight while you’re here.”

“I would never.”

Eskel got up, clapping a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. “Thank you for bringing our pig-headed brother home, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stayed for dinner, learning with surprise that for all of Lambert’s bark, his wolf-tail gave his emotions away. Apparently it was useful for balance during fights, but he tended to keep it strapped down when he was on his Path because it made humans uncomfortable. Eskel said that on black moons, he grew a snout and it was both painful and horrifying to behold, so he tracked the lunar cycles religiously. Vesemir said that after a hundred years, it surprised none of them to learn that Geralt’s human cycle had taken him by surprise. Of all of them, other than Priscilla, Vesemir appeared the most human. However, Jaskier wasn’t sure whether the furs were part of him or part of his clothing choice and he decided he didn’t want to know the answer either way.

Eskel went to get Jaskier a bowl of stew, pushing him towards the bench where he ended up sitting across from Priscilla. She was lovely, with long blonde hair, and sharp blue eyes. She wore a red feathered cap, and it seemed familiar to him though he couldn’t place why until she mentioned his lute.

“I noticed your lute when they brought you here,” Priscilla said, indicating the Witchers. “It’s truly a masterpiece.”

“You’re from Kovir, right? That troubaritz -Callonetta?”

Priscilla smiled widely. “That’s my stage name.”

“What are you doing here? In a Witcher keep?”

“I could ask you the same.”

“I’m composing right now, and there’s no better source of them than Geralt!”

Priscilla glanced at Lambert who seemed more interested in his mug than either of them. 

“It’s a lovely tale. I shall have to sing it for you sometime, otherwise you’d never believe me.”

“A patron of the arts such as yourself? Impossible.”

Priscilla laughed, a lovely, warm sound. “It’s truly an otherworldly tale, best sung in pleasant company. Tomorrow, then.”

“Please, don’t,” Lambert said. Despite his words, there was little pleasant in his tone. “Not again.”

Priscilla laughed. “You just don’t want Geralt knowing our story.”

Lambert flushed and muttered under his breath.

Jaskier looked between them curiously, startling when Eskel placed a bowl in front of him.

“Did I hear that right? You’re both musicians?” 

Jaskier nodded, and soon the three of them were involved in a deep discussion about music. Jaskier told them of his ballad, and of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher” which seemed to delight Priscilla. She had heard his songs on her way to the keep, and had been desperately curious about the performer behind them. Vesemir left to bed long before their conversation started, and Lambert called it quits not halfway through. It was Eskel who directed them to bed, when Jaskier was yawning more than he was talking. 

Jaskier got up, turning to leave when he saw Geralt. His white hair fell loose around his shoulders, and he was wearing a black tunic and breeches, leaning beside the fireplace. He hadn’t even noticed the other man.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the way to my room, Eskel, if you wouldn’t mind showing me?” Priscilla asked.

“Oh, the keep can be tricky to navigate,” Eskel said agreeably, leading her upstairs. He sported a pair of floppy brown dog ears. “Glad to see you’re feeling better, Geralt. Night.”

Jaskier stepped towards his Witcher. “There’s food in the kitchen.”

“I know.”

“How do you feel?”

“Better.”

Jaskier stopped in front of him, looking into a pair of familiar yellow eyes. His heart beat faster. “Good. You see, I told you you weren’t going to die.”

Suddenly, Geralt’s arms were around him, pulling him into a tight hug. Jaskier froze. Geralt pulled back just as abruptly.

“You almost died,” Geralt said accusingly.

Jaskier blinked. “Uh, I think it was just exhaustion, actually.”

Geralt scowled. “Exhaustion in this kind of weather? It kills more people than you’d think.”

“Well, lucky we were at the gate. Or wherever we made it.” Jaskier barely remembered any of the journey -he remembered talking about his childhood, he remembered singing for a time, and the burn and ache in his muscles as he pulled Geralt along with him. “I’m uh glad to see you’re better.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier smiled. “And back to yourself. No more talk of death, there buddy.”

Geralt didn’t answer right away, gaze shifting to the table. “Who was the woman?”

“Priscilla. She’s a troubaritz, from Kovir. I’ve heard of her before, and she’s an amazing singer, Geralt, you would not believe. We’re going to go over our notes tomorrow, see what we can come up with.”

Geralt growled quietly and Jaskier froze, glancing at him. But Geralt didn’t say anything.

“She could be my match one day -she’s definitely better than Valdo Marx, hands down. Oh it’ll be a blast. It’s been ages since I had another musician around. And her hat, did you see it Geralt? I need one -” Jaskier cut off as Geralt shoved him against the wall.

And then, Geralt was kissing him. 

Jaskier wasn’t going to lie -he’d thought about it before. He’d seen Geralt’s body a few dozen times, mostly when there was blood involved, and on occasion when there was a woman involved. It was a great body. He’d wondered what it would feel to be pressed against it, skin to skin. He’d thought about what it would be to kiss the man, whether Geralt was as rough on the inside as he appeared on the outside, and he’d wondered. Wondered many, many dangerous things. But Geralt never looked at him, so he tried not to wonder for long. Jaskier wasn’t all that bothered by Geralt not looking. His heart was easy and he followed where it led. 

Jaskier kissed him back, his hand resting on Geralt’s stubbled cheek, urging him closer. He could feel the hard press of Geralt’s muscles against him, and his body stirred with interest and effort. Geralt kissed more gently than Jaskier would have thought, and a thrill of delight raced down his body at the realization that his -his- Witcher wasn’t all brute. 

And then Geralt pulled back, eyes wide, breath heavy.

“I…” Geralt stopped, taking another step back.

And Jaskier knew. He knew where this was going. He’d been in this spot a time or two in his life, and he felt like his heart might shatter. He reached out, pleading. Don’t do it. Don’t.

And then, Geralt was gone. Footsteps quick and light, it was like he’d never been there at all.

Jaskier closed his eyes tightly and took a deep, steadying breath. It was going to be a long, long winter, wasn’t it?

The key seemed to be Priscilla, Jaskier realized a few weeks in. It became a “will he / won’t he” dance that the others seemed oblivious to, except for Priscilla who would smile knowingly anytime she saw Geralt. Jaskier didn’t know what that was about, but he thought Geralt was being too possessive or possibly jealous. Except, he didn’t really mind it all that much. Geralt would corner him afterwards, and he never said anything, just stood there against him, so close they were almost touching. Jaskier was aching to kiss him, but he didn’t dare cross the distance first. He’d done that before, when he was younger, in Oxenfurt with nobles’ sons who would call him names after. 

He didn’t think Geralt would do anything of the sort, and he ached to touch the other man. But he desperately didn’t want to scare him off, either. So there they would stand, in some quiet corner of Kaer Morhen, eyes locked, their breath the only parts of them touching. And the same guarded look would return to Geralt’s eyes, and he would pull away, and walk into the distance while Jaskier grabbed onto the wall, or the banister, or whatever was near and breathe.

He enjoyed spending time with Priscilla, without involving the dance of Geralt. She was pleasant and charming, and she knew music like he did. She told him how she and Lambert had met, how she’d saved his life when she was little more than a child, and he asked for her heart in return. Lambert had been new to Witchering, and it seemed the Law of Surprise took his request literally. Priscilla sought him out once she was old enough to, and eventually tracked him down to a whorehouse. Jaskier found it hard to see them as a couple -Priscilla was so bright and warm, and Lambert was downright cruel at times. But never to her. 

According to Priscilla, Lambert was fond of her, but he was terrified of her getting hurt. The Path was meant to be taken alone. Vesemir didn’t approve, but there was nothing he or anyone in the world could do to separate the two of them. Destiny had bound them together. What else could Lambert have asked of a child? It was happenstance, or perhaps fate, that she had found him when she did and startled the monster he was losing a fight to that had allowed him to gain his footing and finish the thing off. Priscilla had never been afraid of the man, and she recalled that as a child she’d been fascinated by his tail. But she had tracked him down, and here they were, together and yet not.

Jaskier related. His dance with Geralt only seemed to happen more frequently, and it was heart-breaking each time. The last time when Geralt went to flee, Jaskier had grabbed his forearm. He would have stayed in those corners for a lifetime or more, just to be near Geralt, while the other man figured out whatever it was he needed. Jaskier could wait. He would wait. 

“Stay,” Jaskier asked, voice quiet and low. There was no reason for Geralt to flee every time, and it wasn’t as though it was a daily occurrence. 

Geralt pulled his arm away roughly, and Jaskier moved into his space instead. Geralt back-stepped quickly, eyes wide, until he was the one cornered. Jaskier put a hand to either side of his Witcher’s body, knowing that if Geralt wanted to escape, he could. He wouldn’t resist if the Witcher tried, but he was tiring of their games.

He was also growing tired of the dreams that plagued him at night, dreams that didn’t belong to him. Sense memories of lying tangled with Geralt, hearing his laughter. Memories he must have once shared with Renfri. And maybe that was why Geralt kept fleeing, but Jaskier was tired of it.

Jaskier leaned forward, resting his forehead against Geralt’s, his eyes shut. Geralt stilled under him, every muscle tense. Jaskier did nothing else, just rested their foreheads together. He could feel Geralt’s breath stir his hairs, the longer strands nearly tickling his nose. But he didn’t move. Today Geralt had caught him in the courtyard after a music discussion with Priscilla while he tidied the place as Vesemir had requested. Geralt had cornered him out of sight from the keep, somewhere in the training area. There was no one to interrupt them, out here.

Jaskier ached to speak. He wanted to tell Geralt that whatever had happened with Renfri had no bearing here, that he was a different person now, but if Geralt didn’t understand that, then whatever they had between them would mean nothing anyway. He wanted to tell Geralt that he wasn’t a monster, and while he’d said it before, he’d never said it like this. Scant inches kept their lips apart, and it would have been easy, comfortable, even to whisper the words. To tell Geralt what he thought of him. But Jaskier was afraid that a single word would break whatever spell held them here, in this moment. 

Geralt smelled of horse sweat and leather, like sword polish and the damp cold of winter. But his body was hot, and firm, and close enough for Jaskier to feel. But yet, he didn’t dare touch. Slowly, reluctantly, Jaskier pulled away. He deliberately didn’t meet Geralt’s eyes, and walked away. He didn’t know if he could wait a lifetime for Geralt to figure it out, but they had the winter at Kaer Morhen. Maybe they would always have these winters.

Lambert and Geralt often tussled with each other, and Lambert seemed to relish in egging everyone on. He’d found a sore spot to poke Geralt -refusing to refer to Jaskier as anything other than Sir Jaskier, Rescuer of Geralt or as Geralt’s knight in shining armor. It was as funny as it wasn’t. But it was always entertaining to watch the two of them go at it, usually with Priscilla or Vesemir separating them. Eskel would just toss them practice swords, and assign them both chores afterwards. Vesemir just sent them to do hard, physical labor like hauling blocks in to repair the Eastern Wall. Priscilla and Jaskier traded for cooking duty and cleaning quite comfortably.

At night, they’d gather for games of chess or gwent in the dining room, and Jaskier and Priscilla would take to singing songs. Eskel and Lambert were fond of making their own liquor, especially vodka, and passing it around. Vesemir left before the fun had truly begun. They made it a competition one night to see who could sing the lewder, and Jaskier had to bow down to Priscilla’s prowess that left the Witchers howling in laughter and Lambert’s ears burning red. But the Witchers were laughing, and smiling, and Jaskier could have spent an eternity here, just like this.

That night, Geralt knocked on his door and Jaskier pulled him inside. Geralt kissed him, and it was all a bit of a blur after that. They kissed for what felt like hours, unhurried, with wandering hands until they passed out. In the morning, when Jaskier could no longer ignore the bright rays of sunlight, he woke in bed alone. The scent of sword polish and leather the only proof Geralt had ever been there at all.


	7. Songbirds: Of Past, and Present

Jaskier leaned back, scratching down notes as Geralt caught up with his brothers. A hundred years had passed, and many things had changed. Eskel’s scar was new, the result of a Child Surprise cursed by the Black Sun. Geralt flinched at that, glancing at Jaskier, before telling the Witchers about Renfri. He spoke about her, in a detached, almost clinical way. But Eskel and Vesemir had both made trips to Blaviken, had learned the tale there, had seen Geralt in the forest. With hoods up, coin at hand, and swords hidden, they had travelled to see the White Wolf themselves. But for all their attempts at breaking the curse, they had been forced to accept it wasn’t a curse they could break. Despite that, Jaskier thought even a blind man could tell Geralt had been in love with Renfri.

“She lived her life in a cage, forced to break curses the mage had cast…” Geralt trailed off. “I hadn’t gone there to be set free from the Path. I thought it… terribly cruel, for anyone to live a life imprisoned. I didn’t realize the mage was so involved, initially, or I would have killed him.”

“I would’ve demanded to be free of this life,” Lambert muttered, taking a drink of ale. “Gods. Imagine if one were alive now.”

“It was Renfri who cursed me,” Geralt continued. “She made me kill her, and with her dying words made me slumber for what must have been a hundred years to the day.” His golden eyes found Jaskier eerily.

Jaskier nodded in gratitude. Listening to Geralt talk about her here, he wondered if their problem was because Geralt couldn’t help but see Renfri when they were alone together. Or perhaps he was more emotionally repressed than Jaskier figured, or maybe he’d never been with a man before? It didn’t seem likely, but it wasn’t impossible. Maybe he didn’t want the other Witchers knowing about them. But Jaskier couldn’t see Eskel or Lambert saying a word against them, other than in jest.

Lambert spoke about how he had spent years chasing rumours of a Songbird in Kovir, only to have Priscilla seek him out. And while she was a talented singer, she couldn’t create miracles, though she was flattered by his compliment. In a whorehouse, nonetheless. Jaskier wondered what Lambert would do, if he were not a Witcher, but instead a whole man.

“But a Songbird?” Priscilla asked, leaning forward. “In Kovir, the Kings brought any Songbirds to court and awarded them an official position. It’s been empty for hundreds of years, but it still exists. I struggle to see the logic in keeping one as little more than a slave.”

“Not here,” Vesemir said, sounding older than even Jaskier suspected. Unlike the other Witchers, his hair was grey and he appeared to be in his late fifties. “Cintra has no interest in anything but killing elves, and making a name for themselves.”

“And Queen Calanthe is quite talented at both,” Jaskier added.

Vesemir nodded. “Redania doesn’t care unless your birth is noble, and even then, they’re too busy fighting with Temeria to do much else. Temeria has a history of burning people even suspected to be a Songbird at the stake, thanks to the Order of the Flaming Rose. Kerack?” Vesemir waved his hand. “Maybe if one fell into Belohun’s hands, he’d ransom it to the highest bidder, but otherwise they’re too busy with petty squabbles and piracy to care much.”

“Kaedwen hates anything non-human. I’d wager they’d imprison or kill a Songbird,” Eskel said. “They pay us well to handle their problems, but…” He shrugged.

“Aedirn would treat them well,” Vesemir said. “Mahakam as well, they’re known for tolerating Others. Rivia and Lyria? If one was lucky, it might last. Might get tangled in a pogrom; they wouldn’t care then.”

“Ofir treats them the way one might an oracle, or prophet,” Jaskier felt compelled to speak. “Songbirds there guide politics and court intrigue as easily as breathing. Zerrikania treat them as they would any other person; I suppose the greedy must pursue them, but they’re not afforded any special privilege. Toussaint honours the great Odette -said to be the strongest Songbird in centuries, she could even turn into a swan -and the tragedy of her life.”

Geralt stared at him.

“Oxenfurt really taught you all that?” Priscilla asked, awed.

Jaskier nodded uncomfortably, acutely aware of all the Witchers staring at him. But these were things he didn’t know from Oxenfurt. They didn’t have that hazy awareness of Renfri, that most things he associated with her came with either. It was like a bone deep knowledge. Like it was simple. Avoid the North.

He couldn’t say how he knew it, but Cintra liked to dress their Songbirds in pretty clothes when there were visiting dignitaries and to showcase the destructive force a Songbird could unleash. It bought them peace. But other than that, Songbirds were kept in a dark dungeon for the rest of their days, in case they decided to unleash that power at Cintra or her allies. Redanian stakes were stained red with the blood of non-humans, and death by fire was the worst way to go. The pirates of Kerack had once kept a Songbird onboard a ship, and while it was a life, it was one spent as a pirate until push came to shove and torture was deemed necessary. And then, being a Songbird was just a curse, a way to cause pain and death and suffering. Kaedwenians had spent years chasing a Songbird until it died, alone in a cave to trolls who didn’t even know what they had stumbled upon.

Jaskier leaned against the wall, barely keeping track of the conversation flowing around him. He remembered Ofir, the sands, the Golden Towers and the life of luxury it had offered him. He remembered Zerrikania, the days the war broke out, and how they left him to toil in the fields. It was a peaceful life. He could sing to his heart’s content, and if he sang to save lives on occasion, or to grant fertility, well, no one commented on it. Neighbours asked for favours, sometimes, but they did not fight him for it. And when monsters crawled out of the woods at night? They defended him. He pressed a hand to his face, trying to sort the differences he knew of Odette from the ballads and from memory. The stories claimed she was so gifted she could turn into a swan, and told of how her lover was tricked into loving another, and that Odette was so crushed she lived out her life as a swan.

But Jaskier remembered it differently. It was distant, and hard to grasp. But he thought Odette had been cursed, her voice stolen from her every night, trapped in the form of a swan, and her life left in the hands of the one who loved her the most. But with a simple glamour and a public declaration to the wrong face, and Odette was doomed. She died, alone, and her lover never even knew the difference.

Jaskier pushed off from the wall and called it an early night. His head ached. And for all that he wanted to deny he was a Songbird, the memories were hard to disprove. He remembered lives that weren’t his -specifically ones that belonged to Songbirds. But if that made him a Songbird, then why had he never been able to perform a miracle? Was it a miracle he had brought Geralt here through the snowstorm? Or was it because Geralt was stubborn and fought tooth and nail to live? Jaskier desperately wanted to believe it was the latter. Because what good came from being a Songbird?

In Cintra, one night the guards had secured his gag poorly, and so he had sung his swan song for an audience of one. It was a peaceful way to go. In Redania, mages had used spells to silence her, and guards lit the pyre up. Agony. In Zerrikania he died of old age, with his family surrounding him. Kaedwen had been simultaneously fun and terrifying, leading trackers into deadlier and deadlier lands before she died to rock trolls. He didn’t like to think of Kerack, to see the flashes of blood, to watch as he sang and bodies exploded around him. He couldn’t tell friend or foe apart, and he sang up storms on demand, and one day ripped both ships apart without a second thought as he lost to blood lust. He remembered being captured by vampires in Nazair, who only needed her blood. So they ripped her tongue out and fed on her for so long she couldn’t remember. For her blood strengthened them, and gave them the power of a silver tongue, of compulsion unlike any other living creature.

Monsters with higher intelligence hunted for Songbirds, and could sense them easily. In Nazair, she hadn’t even known what her powers were, but she sang for crowds when she was captured. Cursed monsters such as werewolves lusted for Songbirds to free them from their curse, but the problem was always the same, for if denied, the werewolves went into a frenzy and death was soon to follow. Berserkers were often the same.

The memories were brief and short flashes, lingering knowledge, and faint recollection. Jaskier’s head pounded with the information and he flopped onto his cot with relief. He didn’t want to remember anymore. Melitele protect him, but he didn’t want to know more than he did. He could remember his -were they his? His ancestors? -deaths vividly, as though they stood out like a beacon warning against locations. But his head continued to ache, and the memories continued to swirl in his mind.

He remembered being a young man plagued with similar pains, and that it had been Countess de Stael who granted his family use of their mage. He got up, stumbling to his chest where he rifled through the pockets of each article before he recovered the ring. He pushed it onto his ring finger, and noticed it felt tighter than usual, though he was certain he hadn’t gained enough weight to make a difference. Impossible on porridge and fresh meat split between four Witchers. It had been a long time since the spell was cast, but it seemed to work like a charm. The pain shut off, and the memories dwindled until they were little more than the memory of remembering. He made it back to bed, and sleep found him easily.

It happened as all accidents tend to. Abruptly and without warning.

Priscilla had convinced him that while the Witchers were repairing the fortress, they should prepare a feast to celebrate everyone. Celebrate Priscilla and Lambert’s marriage -though she refused to say whether they had explicitly been wed or not -Geralt’s return, Eskel’s big hunt, and Vesemir surviving the five of them under one roof without killing anybody. It was easy to slip out, and Kaer Morhen was a well-guarded place. Though it wasn’t so cold that the rivers had frozen, but also cold enough that fur clothing was a requirement. They trudged down to the river, and set about fishing. It was easier to come by than game for the two of them. Maybe in another lifetime Jaskier had been an adept tracker, but it wasn’t a skill he had, and Priscilla preferred fish anyway. They spoke softly to one another, waiting for the fish to bite.

“What’s going on with you and Geralt?” she asked, pulling absolutely zero punches.

Jaskier flushed, fumbled his rod, and stammered incoherently briefly. He cleared his throat, cheeks undoubtedly red. “He’s been acting a bit strange since he woke up. I’ve never seen him like this before.”

Priscilla considered, tilting her head to the side. “Lambert’s said that after being human, the part that makes it so hard, is feeling everything. Like a human would. The mutagens, the demon blood, it can only mask so much. In the days following, it’s an emotional tidal wave of feelings. Maybe Geralt realized how he felt about you?”

Jaskier stared at the rippling water. Maybe Geralt had realized he had feelings, or maybe he only remembered how he felt about Renfri. Since their night together, tantalizingly short though it was, and aching painful to wake up to, Geralt had been keeping his distance. Even if he saw Jaskier alone with Priscilla, composing love songs, chatting about the weather, he didn’t corner him after. He missed those moments, as much as he had begun to dislike them.

“I take it the tidal wave recedes a few weeks after?”

“Yes, typically. But he can’t exactly be oblivious to what it is he’s been feeling now.”

Jaskier let out a breath. So if Geralt had felt for Jaskier, he would have continued circling. But if his feelings were for Renfri, if he was clinging to the similarities between Jaskier and her, then having regained more control over his emotions, he would know Jaskier was Jaskier, and he would not return.

“It wasn’t easy for Lambert to accept either,” Priscilla said softly. “He tried to sneak off several times in the middle of the night. He hid in men’s rooms, whorehouses, he did everything he could to escape me.”

Jaskier looked at her in surprise. “What did you do?”

Priscilla grinned widely. “The first night, he got away but it wasn’t hard to track down a golden-eyed Witcher. After that? I slept on the floor in front of the door, whether it was outside the room or from within. He started sneaking out windows after, so I paid the stable-hands to create a scene if he did. Men’s rooms it was either out the window or the door, so I asked some nearby gents to keep an eye on my unruly lover who was determined to leave me with babe. They didn’t question my story,” she added, with a warm laugh. “Whorehouses? I followed him in and told the women I was happy to watch. They didn’t mind, but Lambert did.”

Jaskier laughed in spite of himself.

“Lambert was understandably upset about all this.” Priscilla reeled her line in with concentration. “I was a touch too forceful. But I didn’t know what else to do. I had all these feelings… He’s sharp with a wicked sense of humour, you know? And an asshole. But it changed after an argument, when he left me behind, because the Path is no place for a woman. And he was right, because the Path is no place for anyone.

“But our fight had drawn attention, and by the time he had ridden from sight, the ghouls were attacking.” Priscilla shuddered. “I keep a dagger on me, as any reasonable, well-travelled woman does, but I was caught off-guard. I was fighting for my life when he came back. We fought earnestly then,” Priscilla said, smiling smittenly. “And one thing led to another, and now here we are. He’s promised to stop leaving me behind if I stop following his every step, and I’ve promised to stop hunting him across the Continent if he promised to stop running.”

Jaskier smiled. “That’s kind of sweet, actually.”

Priscilla set the fish into their basket. “I call it a compromise. My life is tied to him, my heart belongs to him, and I wouldn’t wish ill on him ever. I think he feels differently. Guilty, like he forced this on me. I think it would have happened anyway. But if there was a way to free him from the Path? He would be a different man. This life has made him hard, and angry, and when his walls come down, you can tell.”

Without warning, a blue hand reached up, wrapping around Priscilla’s ankle and then she was gone, pulled underwater with a cut-off scream. Jaskier lurched to his feet, numb, staring at the water in horror. Bubbles. Priscilla kicked to the surface, inhaling a deep breath of air before she was pulled back under and red bloomed underwater.

Time seemed to slow, and the energy rose around him like a crescendo. The bubbles, the blood, the slow-moving river and melting snow dripping. Priscilla, struggling for her life, the screech of the drowner. Splashing of their struggle. More red bloomed. Jaskier opened his mouth and felt _something_ snap. The ring on his finger blackened, fell to the ground, and words moved through him without thought.

His words put the drowner to sleep, it slowed the river and he sang about Priscilla’s lungs filling with air, and his song carried her to the shore. She coughed, pulling herself onto the snow-covered bank, and Jaskier stumbled to her side. She stared at him, confused, but then awareness filled her eyes. She was bleeding. The melody was in his head before the words were, and as he sang about her health, her skin knitted itself back together without so much as a scar.

And then, it was gone. The crescendo, that blend of frenzied energy, gone. The rush of the river, the snow melting, the sound of their panting breaths filled the silence. Priscilla stared at him, her eyes wide, and then the shivers started.

“You’re a Songbird?” she asked, breathless. “Why didn’t you -why didn’t you say something?”

Jaskier stumbled to his feet. Every instinct, honed across centuries of building, told him to flee. This would bring nothing but trouble down upon his head. But Priscilla was shaking, and wasn't likely to get better anytime soon. Jaskier helped her to her feet, putting his fur cloak around her and ushering her towards the fortress. Her blue eyes were fixed on his with accusations he didn't know how to answer. What would happen when the Witchers knew? When Lambert learned what Jaskier was?

"I didn't know," Jaskier said tightly. "I didn't. Please, believe me. I've never -this has never happened before."

"I don't understand," she chattered, shoulders shaking as Jaskier hurried their pace. "You're just a bard, I thought?"

So did he. Believing this was an entirely different issue, one he wasn't ready to deal with yet. His legs ached with the desire to drop Priscilla at the gates and flee, but he wasn't going to do that. It wasn't like the Witchers would kill him. Monster he may be, killer he was not. So he half-carried Priscilla back to the keep, wrapped in his cloak, to the nearest fire. It wouldn't be long before one of the Witchers was here.

"Please, don't tell anyone. I'll answer your every question, but just, don't. Please," he whispered.

He threw another stick into the fire, setting her as close to it as he dared.

"I want to write your song," Priscilla said, pushing his cloak off. With numb fingers she fumbled at her cloak and Jaskier helped peel it off.

"Sure, yes," Jaskier said, and he would have agreed to anything to hold onto his secret for longer.

They called for help them, and within seconds Eskel had arrived with blankets. Lambert was at her side, helping with the clothing situation under the covers. Jaskier and the other men averted their gazes out of politeness, while Geralt stoked the fire. Vesemir brought tea. Lambert tossed Priscilla's torn cloak and shirt aside, his eyes immediately pinning Jaskier. Priscilla set her hand on Lambert's arm, already in dry clothes, she shook her head.

"We got lucky," she said, wrapping her hand around Lambert's wrist. "Please. I don't want to talk about it." She trembled, eyes filling with tears, and Jaskier was struck by how amazing her acting skills were.

Lambert shot Jaskier a sharp look, but he relented at Priscilla's touch, sitting beside her, his arm around her. Jaskier stared at them, terrified. How long before his powers were known by everyone? His time was limited. Songbirds didn't get to live long, and in the comfort of Kaer Morhen, surrounded by the men who would most want to be set free, Jaskier was the only one who could help them. He startled when Geralt set a hand on his shoulder. What would he do when they knew? He didn't know how to use his power. It wasn't as simple as singing; it was like singing, but it felt different. He had felt the energy of the world around him, had shaped it, had used it to save Priscilla. He reached to adjust his ring, only to find it was gone. Right. He vaguely remembered it shattering, crumbling in blackened flakes.

The Countess de Stael had known. The everlasting flower. Jaskier closed his eyes and focused on breathing steadily. Had she and her mage done it to save him? To give him a normal life? He didn't understand. He wasn't sure he ever would. Had the ring that had been enchanted to prevent his headaches, instead just walled up those memories, kept them locked away? He felt slightly wild, and unhinged. Vulnerable. But they had stopped his powers. It must have. When he woke Geralt up, the ring had been on a string around his neck. Worn, but not. And when he sang to Geralt to keep him alive, to haul him up the pass, the ring had been in his pocket. Somehow, the Countess de Stael being the only person to know was terrifying. The power she'd held over him for years. And now, Priscilla knew. Before long, so would the rest of the Witchers.

Jaskier glanced at Geralt.

And Geralt would never see him as anyone other than Renfri.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, we get the plot moving!
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment if you can! <3


	8. My Jolly Witcher Bold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I unexpectedly moved two weeks ago (I had been planning to move in September, but things worked out better than expected, and ended up moving much sooner than I anticipated)
> 
> The song, if you don't know it, is My Jolly Sailor Bold. I listened to the version by Acapella Onion and bastardized the lyrics in the song you'll read. I'm not a gifted song-writer, I do apologize in advance. The voice of Acapella Onion in particular is how I imagine she'd sound singing said song.

Priscilla sat down across from Jaskier, blue eyes on his. Jaskier threw another log into the fireplace, glancing at the door anxiously. It wasn’t something he wanted any of the other Witchers to hear, exactly. It was his secret to bear, for as long as he could keep it a secret. Lambert strode in, shutting the door behind him with far more force than necessary. Jaskier jumped in spite of himself. 

“Well?” Lambert demanded, standing behind Priscilla.

“I…” Jaskier hesitated, glancing between the two of them, torn. How did he confess a secret he was barely certain of himself? Where did his story start? “I always loved to sing. I made a rose bloom, sang to it about my love for the Countess de Stael, that so long as our love remained true, it would never wither. She must have known. She gave me a ring, and I performed no other miracles until I met Geralt. And then I saved his life, again, and Priscilla’s. But I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Jaskier turned to Lambert pleadingly. “If I knew how to make you whole, believe me, I wouldn’t hesitate.”

Lambert crossed his arms. Priscilla reached behind her, laying a hand on his arm, and his posture relaxed ever so slightly.

“I swear, the day I learn how to help Witchers, I will return here. Or wait near the pass until I can arrive here.”

“Figures the first fucking Songbird in a century doesn’t know jackshit about their powers.”

Priscilla shot him a dirty look. Lambert didn’t look apologetic.

Jaskier wouldn’t have expected otherwise from either of them. He smiled apologetically. “At least you know I exist.”

“Geralt hasn’t realized it?”

“He’s been unconscious every time I sang with… power.”

Lambert snorted, uncrossing his arms. “I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he learns.”

“Don’t tell him,” Jaskier breathed. Everything between him and Geralt seemed to hang in the balance. Whatever this -this -almost, this will-he-won’t-he dance would shatter in an instant if Geralt knew. Of that, he didn’t doubt.

Lambert raised a brow. 

Jaskier glanced at Priscilla, as though she would have an explanation for his hesitation. But not even she knew the full story, and Jaskier couldn’t fault them for it. 

“Whatever’s going on with Geralt, I don’t want him to stop seeing me as his friend and bard, and instead as… a ghost.”

Lambert held his hand out. “I won’t say a word, if you give me yours that you’ll do your best to not fucking die and learn how to fucking sing properly.”

Jaskier laughed, the tension easing out of him, and shook his hand. “I’ll do my best.”

Spring came roaring in like a lion, and one by one the Witchers departed. Priscilla left with Lambert; Eskel went on his own, and Jaskier left with Geralt. The winter had been comfortable, and for all the research Jaskier could do on his own, he had learned nothing about how to use his powers. In fact, it was a quiet winter, and try as he might, he never managed to use them again. They travelled together for a few months before splitting up -Jaskier needed to attend his spring competition and put Valdo Marx into his place. Also, to get some research in at Oxenfurt, because surely they would have records about Songbirds and their powers, and he would have had no way to explain to Geralt why he was interested in those books convincingly enough.

But despite winning the competition, and reading every tome he could get his hands on, he came up empty handed. Most of the books were dedicated to the legendary Odette, and her tragic demise. There were documents about how Siegfried kept his marriage to Odile, and songs about how Siegfried died with Odette in the lake. Toussaint’s historical books showed Siegfried’s marriage to an Odette, but there were no descendants, so whatever had happened, their happy union was limited. Jaskier’s memory supplied him with the answer, of Odette, dying alone. Other texts were dedicated to theorizing how Songbirds’ powers worked, and Jaskier skimmed through it, but from his experience he found it useless. The author theorized a full orchestral procession was required, which was definitely not true. Garbage book, really. 

After months of researching and coming up empty handed, he was forced to admit there was only one answer. One last resort he could fall back upon. It wasn’t reliable. Not in the slightest. His memories hadn’t stirred up any answers or explanations though, try as he did to remember how he’d used his powers in past lives, he could only remember singing miracles or disasters into being. So he packed up his bag, bought a few new clothes for the road, and headed out. He kept detailed notes from one tome unrelated to Songbirds; a book entirely about soul eaters. 

He followed the signs. Of people left breathing, but unconscious and lifeless, where no sleeping draught or any other magic could seem to wake them. He followed the rumors of villages left asleep, and found mostly true stories there. Some villagers had been left unconscious, but there were survivors who told a tale about a slender-cloaked figure who had been seen leaving the homes of the sleeping. Other villages, where it had been several months or more, since the cloaked figure was seen, those who had been asleep, had wasted away despite every attempt healers and herbalists could provide. 

He found her in a small village, barely even that, a couple houses cobbled together, and every resident stone cold and unconscious. She sat in front of a fire, cloak such a dark red, it was nearly black. She pushed her hood back, eyeing him suspiciously.

“You aren’t who I was expecting,” she said simply. 

Jaskier shrugged, his heart pounding. “I had questions.”

Renfri smirked. “Doesn’t everyone?”

“I know what I am. What you are.”

Renfri tilted her head to the side. “Did you want a round of applause, bard?” She raised her hands slowly, clapping them together sarcastically. 

Jaskier gritted his teeth. “You’re the only one who can help me.”

Renfri laughed, a rich, warm sound that echoed around them. An eerie cry sounded in the distance, and Jaskier jerked towards the noise, noticing a silver orb floating behind him. 

“You want to know how to sing? How to free poor Geralt?” She got to her feet slowly, stretching out her hand.

The silver orb floated towards her, and Jaskier swore he could hear a woman sobbing. Renfri grabbed it, pulling it into her mouth, and the sobbing turned into a scream before it was abruptly consumed. “I have nothing to say to you, bard, but you’re going to be in my way.”

Jaskier stepped towards her, frustrated. Why did everything have to revolve around Geralt? He hadn’t exactly thought talking to her would be productive, but he thought she could have given him a tip or two. Maybe pointed him in the right direction. Renfri stepped into his space, pressing against him, blue eyes staring into his. 

_“Upon one summer’s morning, you carefully did stray, down by the walls of Wapping, where you met a Witcher bold. Conversing with a young lad, who seem’d to be in pain, saying Geralt, when you go, I fear you’ll ne’re return again._

__

__

_Her heart is pierced by Lilit, she disdains all glittering gold, there is nothing can console her, but he who failed her bold._

__

__

_His hair it gleams in night, his eyes as bright as gold, her hungriness attend him wherever he may go. From Tower Hill to Blackwall, she’ll wander weep and moan, all for he who failed her, until his soul’s hers._

__

__

_Her heart is pierced by Lilit, she disdains all glittering gold, there is nothing can console her, but he who failed her bold._

__

__

_You are a viscount, the truth she now will tell, and in a great moment, Julian will fall quiet. His fortune doth exceed three hundred-thousand gold, and he frowns upon another, he who failed her bold. A whit from his noggin, his orchestra and songs, for true love has grafted his heart, for he who failed her bold._

__

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_Her heart is pierced by Lilit, she disdains all glittering gold, there is nothing can console her, but he who failed her bold._

__

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_Her name it is Renfri, an exiled princess fair, and she has left the living, and seven dwarves behind. Come on dear viscount, whoever you may be, who loves he who failed her, that plows the raging beasts. While aloft in a storm, from her his absence mourns, and firmly pray arrive the day, he’s never more to roam._

__

__

_Her heart is pierced by Lilit, she disdains all glittering gold, there is nothing can console her, but he who failed her bold._

__

__

_Her heart is pierced by Lilit, she disdains all glittering gold, there is nothing can console her, but he who failed her bold.”_

He couldn’t speak. Renfri’s slow, dark smile was more unnerving than he expected. She released him from her grasp, and with a firm grasp, led him inside. He clutched his throat, trying to speak, but no words escaped. She shoved him indoors, and he collapsed on the floor. 

“Nothing can console me, but he who failed me bold. Until his soul is mine, my hunger will not cease.” She shut the door firmly behind her.

Silver orbs -souls -his mind supplied, floated around him, muting the world to dull gray. They babbled at him, but it was as though he were deaf to their cries. He could not speak. Tears welled in his eyes, and time seemed to stretch on for an eternity. He watched as the day grew darker, and night stretched beyond them. He could hear, and see, the bright flames of Renfri’s fire, and he froze when he heard the familiar nickering of Roach.

“Renfri.” 

Jaskier tried to stand up, to make himself seen, but the souls weighed him down. He managed to crawl to the window, watching as Geralt stepped closer to the fire. Renfri had wrapped herself in her cloak, and was sitting cross-legged at the fire.

“Geralt,” she said, and there was warmth and fondness in her voice. “Are you here to kill me?”

Geralt glanced around, and the souls forced Jaskier’s head down until he couldn’t even look out the window. “No. Stop you, maybe. Convince you to change your mind. These are innocent people.”

“Are they?” she demanded. “I don’t think they’re all that special. They realized what I am -and all they wanted me for, was to make demands. Bornholdt was going to sell me to Cintra -I hear they’re looking for aid against Nilfgaard -and everyone knew. I cured Maria’s womb, gave her life. I fixed Pietro’s arm, and sang new life into this land.”

Jaskier peered out the window, feeling like a small child. He tried to stand, but the souls prevented it. They could apparently apply more weight whenever they felt it necessary, so they had to be attuned to Renfri’s intentions. She did not want Geralt to know he was here, and she didn’t want him to interfere. Jaskier swallowed, touching his throat tenderly. What was he supposed to do? What could he do?

“That’s no excuse for killing all of them.”

“Oh, psh,” Renfri said, waving a hand airily. “They’re alive. I can show you.”

“They’ll be dead in a month, give or take. The locals are calling it the work of a witch, infecting those who displease her with a wasting disease. There’s no cure when the bodies have no soul, no will to live, nothing but empty husks.”

“And they all deserved it,” Renfri said firmly. “You want me to stop? I’ll die. Unless you’d rather find my dopple, give me his soul, I’d be right as rain again.”

“Not happening,” Geralt growled.

Renfri clicked her tongue, tilting her head to the side. “So you’re here to kill me again.”

Geralt’s hand clenched around the hilt of his silver sword. “You made me do it.”

“I thought you would fight it,” she said quietly. “I thought you were strong, White-Hair. I thought you’d fight. And then I would get my hands on Stregobor and watch as I choked the life out of him.”

Geralt inhaled. “I hear you got your revenge on him. He deserved it.”

Renfri tossed her hair back. “Is that you giving me your blessing, Geralt? Telling me I did a good job, because you couldn’t take care of that bastard yourself?”

Jaskier winced. She didn’t pull any punches. He shuffled away from the window, crawling around the house. There had to be something he could use to get Geralt’s attention, to warn him that Renfri wanted his soul.

“Renfri…” Jaskier paused in his steps at the vulnerability, the pleading tone, in Geralt’s voice. “I didn’t come here to fight you.”

“Then why did you come here?” she asked, and she sounded like a young woman, younger than Jaskier even. It was hard to reconcile her youthful face, with the cold hatred in her voice when she spoke. “You didn’t have to. You could have just ignored me.”

“Because if it’s not me, it’ll be someone else.” 

Jaskier winced. Neither Eskel nor Lambert would hesitate, even if they knew who she was. Possibly especially if they knew who she was. Geralt might have loved her, maybe he just had feelings for her, but she had wrapped him up in her plans. Of course, he went along willingly. But she was the reason they called him the Butcher of Blaviken. 

“I’m not afraid of them. I’m not afraid of anything, Geralt. I died -what else is there to be afraid of?”

“Renfri -”

“I’m not lying. Death was… peaceful. And I don’t belong in this world. This is a place for the living, for lovers and fighters, for war and tragedy. Death is just silent. It’s comforting. No one wants to use me there; no one even knows who I am. I’m just… Renfri. Just Renfri.”

“I can -I can give you that peace, again.”

“No.”

Jaskier turned, looking out the window desperately. Geralt was standing at her side, hand extended. Renfri stood before him, arms crossed, a conflicted expression on her face.

“No,” she repeated, taking a step back from him. “I can be whole here, again. I can do it better. No one will know who I am.”

“You can’t keep killing people!”

“They started it!” Renfri shouted, shoving Geralt away from her.

And then, they were kissing. Although, in a way, it was less like a kiss and more like they were still fighting, just using their bodies. Jaskier turned away quickly. It was one thing to know Geralt had had feelings for Renfri, and another thing entirely to see it in front of his eyes. He didn’t know what the man found so special in her, beside her doe-eyes and her tragic backstory. But something had happened to them in the Forest of the White Wolf that couldn’t be undone. Jaskier grabbed the nearest table and shook it, watching the vase wobble precariously. Outside, there was a flash of bright light, and Jaskier whirled around.

Renfri was singing, a bright light surrounding Geralt. The Witcher’s eyes were shut; he looked almost at peace, silver hair framing his face. Unease and dread crawled through Jaskier. He shook the table again, fighting against the weight on his back to try and get to his feet. It proved to be an impossible task. The vase toppled, shattering against the floor. 

“No!” Renfri cried out, and the door slammed open. “No, no, no,” she moaned, throwing herself at the remains of the vase.

Outside, Geralt lurched to his feet. The bright light that had surrounded her earlier was gone, and Jaskier picked up the biggest shard of porcelain he could find. Maybe Geralt couldn’t do it. And maybe there was something cosmically wrong with killing his previous self, but he didn’t care. Renfri wasn’t meant to be in this world any longer, and while he didn’t blame her for how she ended up, he wasn’t going to let her steal Geralt’s soul either. For all the pity he felt for the cursed princess, she could have made a new life for herself. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!” she shrieked, turning to Jaskier. She didn’t seem phased by the porcelain in his hand, but immediately the souls’ weight increased dramatically. They dropped him to the floor, completely unable to move.

Panicked, he stared at her in horror.

“It was my escape plan!” she cried, staring at the remains of shattered porcelain. She didn’t bleed from the cuts on her hands, he noticed. “Tell me: what was your plan?” She drew a knife from her belt pouch.

“Distract you,” he said, the words compelled out of his throat, beyond his control. 

She lunged towards him with an animalistic scream, and a blast of air sent her flying across the room. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier yelped. “She -she wants your soul! She thinks it’ll make her normal. Don’t get close to her.”

Geralt glanced at him, sweeping his silver blade across the souls who disintegrated at its touch, and Jaskier sprang to his feet like a force unleashed. Renfri was already back on her feet, scowling at the pair of them. 

“He’s lying,” Renfri said, after a beat of silence. “He wants what he can’t have. Don’t you, bard?” She smiled triumphantly. “Geralt looks at you and sees me. And you think you stand a chance?”

It was worse than being winded, the feeling those words evoked. He wanted to drop to the floor, clutch his middle, and wheeze for breath. It was the emotional equivalent of that, having his own emotions laid bare entirely against his volition. 

“At least when he looks at me, he isn’t looking at a ghost,” Jaskier retorted waspishly.

Renfri stepped forward threateningly and Geralt’s sword swung to face her. “Don’t,” he said, voice low and quiet and full of danger.

Renfri glared down the tip of his sword. “I want peace. I want to be just Renfri -not Renfri the Songbird, not Renfri of Creyden -she’s long dead -not even Renfri of Blaviken. I want to just be Renfri. A normal, human girl. No curse, no magic powers, nothing. Just… normal.”

“Something we all want, one way or another,” Geralt said. “That doesn’t give you the right to take other people’s souls. They’re innocent, living people, Renfri.”

“They’re greedy, demanding sycophants!” she fired back. “They’re no different than Stregobor. They want my powers for their own good. To Hell with whatever I want, or what I can do, right?!”

“Renfri, stop,” Geralt said, his voice surprisingly soft. The kind of soft it only ever got when he was talking to children.

Looking at her, she was little more than a child, really. She’d grown up far too quickly, and yet not at all. Kept as a prisoner, forcibly using her powers in an endless cycle for others benefit, or strictly for Stregobor’s own purposes, she hadn’t had the best upbringing. Or much of a chance to grow into a person.

She didn’t cry. No tears came to her eyes, but her arms fell limply to her sides, dropping her knife to the floor. The fight seemed to drain out of her.

“What are you going to do with me, then, Witcher?”

Jaskier hadn’t thought about this part, about what it would do to Geralt to kill her a second time.

“You could take the souls of those about to die, or the ones belonging to criminals,” Geralt said gently. “Or I can put you to rest again.”

Renfri closed her eyes. “I’d rather die than be stuck here, living a cursed, half-life.”

Geralt smiled sadly. “You deserve a full life, once where you can be just Renfri. No powers, no magic. Just Renfri.”

She smiled, and Geralt drove his blade through her chest in one blow. It was fast, and quick. Painless too, Jaskier realized, as she was still smiling.


End file.
